


Blind Visionary

by norskhg



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Humor, Apocalypse, Artificial Intelligence, Backstory, Canon Backstory, City of Light (The 100), Comfort/Angst, Desert Island, F/F, F/M, Hostage Situations, Humor, M/M, Mind Control, Original Character(s), Post-Apocalypse, Romance, Slow Romance, Survival, Wilderness Survival
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2019-11-05 19:31:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 22,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17924981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/norskhg/pseuds/norskhg
Summary: After her parents were killed for betraying Azgeda, Mira left with her aunt to seek safety in the City of Light. However, when they arrived to the island, they discovered the truth about A.L.I.E. She was only 11 when the drones killed her aunt. Mira took shelter underground to survive. Six years later, she discovers Murphy in the woods. Seeing him as a threat, she captures him.





	1. Meet Me In The Woods

A soft drizzle of light streams down onto the rusty dirt that surrounds me as I lay on the bed, slowly waking up after a short night of sleep. The drones have been more active than usual in the recent weeks, causing me too much paranoia to get a complete night of sleep. The small boulder above me shields my home from the outside world. I’ve gone nearly four days now without sunlight and don’t know if I can survive another day without. No matter how active the drones are, I prepare myself for a quick, risky venture up to the outside world. 

As I raise myself out of the bed, I suddenly feel the toll my body has taken from lack of sleep and food. My back aches like a stiff wooden board forcing my spine one way and no other. A sharp pain attacks my temples and no matter how hard I rub them, it won’t budge without a drink of fresh water. As I stand, the world shifts in too many directions, and I stumble forward across the dirt floor. So far, not great, but manageable. The small kitchen holds only a handful of dried berries which I chew down as fast as I can. The soft berries stick to my teeth and dry throat as I force them down. My stomach begs for more, but it’s all I’ve got until I make the trek up the tunnel. 

This has been my home for the past seven years - a hole in the ground - walls, floors, and ceilings made of dirt and rock, hidden underneath the most dangerous place on Earth right now. The drones live up there on the island, tracking every movement in the expanse of woods that surrounds the mansion. This is where the apocalypse began more than 100 years ago. And thanks to my previous circumstances, it is now my home. I don't know much about who or what is up there, but patching together what little I've seen and what little I've heard from others, it's bad enough for me to isolate myself in this tiny prison. I walk over toward the south wall - a tall, long wall of dry dirt with thousands of tally marks from left to right. I pick up the flat stone that sits beneath the artwork and etch in another deep line. 2,429 days since last human contact. 2,429 days since I hugged my aunt’s dying body. 2,429 days since I crawled down into this hole, fearing for my life, waiting for the drones to give up their search for me.

_Don’t give up, Mira. It’s too late for me, but it’s never too late for you. Please, don’t give up._

I haven’t. No matter how difficult this life is now, I must keep fighting. I have no home. No tribe. No purpose - except to survive. 

I pull my thick, long braids up into a loose bun to clear my vision before grabbing my backpack. It’s olive green, stained with mud, and has endured many years of forest life. I pack it with an empty canteen, a sharp pocket knife, and a few traps I’ve created out of washed up metal from the beach. Hopefully the traps I set last week are full, because my stomach is really hating me right now. The climb up the tiny 5-foot hole is made easier by metal rungs like a ladder leading to the top. The hardest part is lifting the boulder that blocks the entrance, shielding me from the drones. My home is completely hidden and the closest I’ve come to being spotted happened when I lifted the rock without listening for drones first. It was hovering about a quarter mile away and was about to shoot me, but got confused when I disappeared beneath the ground. Since then, I’ve made it a habit to wait 30 seconds before going up.

It’s clear today, finally. But I know I’ll only have about ten minutes, to play it safe. Which I do. Always. 

Mustering all the strength I can from my weakened body, I lift the boulder, barely, and watch as the light pours into my dark cavern. I stay still for a moment, breathing, basking in the illuminating sunlight that warms my cool pale skin. I haven’t had much time to enjoy the sun since I stepped foot onto this goddamn island. Ironic, since we were hoping to find the City of Light. 

Finally, I brace myself for the chance of death, and climb onto the grassy dirt that surrounds the entrance. The dirt is wet and sticks to my hands in the best sensation imaginable. The scent of fresh rain pours into my mind and I lose myself for a moment. The island is so lush, bright green, alive with chirping birds and crashing waves from the distant beach. If only it weren’t infested with killer drones. I push myself up until I’m standing and slowly begin to walk. My joints feel like rust after days of laying in bed, preserving what little energy I had. While I’m happy to be walking amongst the thick forest, I know I only have so much time. The first trap is just meters from my dugout. I climb over twigs and small pebbles, cautious of the noise of my boots against the earth. The drones wake easily, but if there aren’t any around, I should be fine to snap a twig or two. 

The trap lay open, bare, useless. I curse under my breath and move forward to the next one, hidden near the base of a large pine tree which usually houses a good amount of active squirrels. I step carefully toward it and keep my gaze direct until it comes into view - a small but worthwhile catch laying dead in the closed trap, it’s metal teeth biting deep into the creature’s tail. Lunch time. I unlatch the hook and set the trap open again, eager to find more prey tomorrow morning. I pocket the squirrel and debate checking the next trap. It might be smarter to focus on water and firewood for today and gather the rest of the meat later. 

Memory brings me to the nearest freshwater creek less than an ⅛ mile west - close, but in the same direction the drones come from. With every step, my heart pounds faster, and my adrenaline keeps me moving forward as my brain fights with me to turn back. 

_You need water. Focus, get the water, and run back quick._

My aunt’s voice replays in my mind, reminding me of my strength, of my purpose, of my parents. 

_Your parents didn’t die just to have you do the same. Think of Azgeda when you feel like giving up._

My pace quickens as the trees pass in my peripheral. I stop, just for one moment. Silence. It’s safe - for now. The creek is running heavier than usual, probably due to the recent rainfall. Setting the backpack down against a boulder, I reach for the canteen, twist it open, and let the fresh water stream into the metal bottle. Just as it reaches the top, a twig snaps behind me. 

Prey? I turn, hopeful at first. But my hope turns to sheer terror as I scour the empty woods. 

Another snap. 

I quickly twist the top back on and shove it in the bag. I frantically shovel through the bottom of the bag until I pull out a long, heavy rope and my bronze spear. I crouch down into a squatting position, hidden behind the large boulder that stands between me and the sound. 

Another snap. Leaves crushing. 

Whatever it is, it’s large enough to make noise as it walks. 

My head pumps blood and adrenaline so fast it dizzies me. I fight the urge to swallow the fear that has risen in my chest. Slowly, I peer my eyes above the boulder and grip my hands tight around the rope and the spear. The noises grow louder, and so does the fear in my chest. My body feels tense, like a rubber band pulled as far as it can without snapping. With every footstep, my heart jolts, ready to fight. The steps are far too close for comfort now.

And I see it. A human. Not ten feet in front of me. 

My subconscious response takes control and before I can stop it, I stand, sprint, and throw the rope at the human with an accuracy I didn’t know I had. The end of the rope catches around their neck and I pull back as hard as I can. Their head jolts backward and their body follows, dragging across the forest floor with a muffled scream. 

“What the fu-”

Their voice cuts out as I pull the rope tighter. I run toward the squirming body moving every which way, gripping the short grass with their bloodied knuckles. 

It’s a boy. A man. Not much older than me. Long, dark brown hair. Scarred cheeks. Angry and confused all at once. 

“Wha-” 

I pull the rope again and his throat closes.

I panic, unsure of his origin. I have to be safe. I have to assume he’s one of them. Chipped. Hunting me down to make me one of them.

With no other option, I position my body on top of his, clench my fist, and send it soaring down with all the weight I can muster. The force smashes into his left cheek and the scar on his face gushes open. I pull away in shock as his eyes flutter and close. To be even safer, I send one more punch in the same spot. He’s out, but not dead.

I don’t think I could kill him if I tried.

I spend a moment still, silent, catching my breath, still hovered over his sleeping body. I stare at his face, his sharp features, his dampened hair. I stare in awe. 

A human. 

I begin to wonder if I’m seeing things. Have I lost my mind finally? Is seven years enough to make up imaginary people? I’m probably dehydrated past the point of no return. 

At once, the birds stop chirping and are replaced with the distant roar of drones. I pick up my backpack without hesitation and begin running. Behind me, the boy coughs.

“Hey,” his voice cracks, weak under the stress of the previous incident. He coughs again, this time nearly choking. The drones are still audible, but don’t appear to have gotten any closer than before. It’s possible they are traveling the opposite way. 

“What happ-”

“Shut up!” I whisper, as stern as possible.

“Wh-”

Before he can ask another question, I knock him out with one swift swing to the temple. His head rolls over on the dirt and I don’t have any other option but to bring him with me. If I don’t - and if he really is one of them - he might wake up and search the area for my whereabouts. He obviously didn’t seem to care about bringing attention to the drones. 

I tie the rope tightly, but not too tight, around his neck and position the other end of the rope over my shoulder. I walk with slow, long steps, heaving his heavy body behind me through the path of trees and rocks. His back drags against the ground in such a loud noise that I consider taking a leap of faith and leaving his body here on the forest floor. But I can’t. My aunt would scold my poor decision making. If it’s the wrong decision, I’m dead. Or taken. I don’t know which is worse.

The rope burns the rough skin of my hands. With each pull of his weight, my skin tears open in painful blisters. But the sound of the drone behind me keeps my vision focused ahead. 

I can see the boulder that marks my home. My safety. 

I made it.


	2. Willow Tree March

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mira begins to gather information from Murphy. His answers leave her with only more questions as she continues to feel endangered by his presence. She is left with no other choice but to take immediate action.

After I clean his wounds and scrub the dirt from his face and visible skin, I use the rope to secure him to the wooden chair against the wall next to my bed. The dead weight is nearly impossible to manage, but I’m persistent in my efforts. If he escapes, he will tell them where I am. While he sleeps, I scavenge through his belongings. He carried only a small backpack and had a few items in his jacket pockets. Since he won’t be going anywhere anytime soon - or ever - I claim all the items as my own. They will come in handy. A sharp pocket knife, a plastic water canteen, a small first aid kit, and matches among other things. The knife is etched with “J.M.” and I can only assume it’s his name or the name of the person he stole it from.

  
I’ve already drank half the water I collected. I wanted to finish it. It took every ounce of control in my small body to leave him the rest. If I’m going to get any information out of him, he needs to be in good condition.

  
It’s been hours since I dragged him down here. Getting him inside was the hardest part, especially with the threat of the drone inching closer. I nearly gave up and wanted to drop him inside, but it was too risky. I know a fair amount of healing, but I could never treat an injured neck or spine. Instead, I used the rope to slowly drop him into the dugout. I managed to get the boulder in place just in time.

  
Now, sitting in front of him, I wait with my newly claimed knife. Soon, his eyelids begin to move. They are far from opening, but it’s a start. I am inches from his face, jaw clenched, waiting for his fluttering eyes to finally open.

  
“Who the hell are you?”

  
“What?” He asks in a raspy voice. His head falls forward and he grunts as he struggles to move his hands which I’ve tied behind the chair. “Ouch,” he mumbles, barely a whisper.

  
“Who are you?” I repeat, louder and more demanding this time. I’ve lit only 3 of the candles in the room, placed equally around us. The light flickers with the wind of his movements, dancing across the dirt walls, illuminating the sweat on his angered face.

  
“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” He responds, his voice full of annoyance. It seems that the more he wakes up, the more irritated he gets.

  
“J.M.” I recite, clutching the knife firm in my hand, ready to attack if he manages to escape my knots. “What does that stand for?”

  
He is more alert at my newest question. I watch intently as he lifts his head, one thick eyebrow cocked upward in confusion and slight intrigue. He stays silent for a moment - a long moment - and I can’t find the strength to ask again. He turns his head to the side, a sly smirk forming across his scarred face, before answering.

  
“John Murphy.” His eyes roll to meet mine. They’re huge, brown, intimidating. I stand my ground. Or at least try to. It’s strange to hear my voice after all these years of trying to stay silent.

  
“John Murphy,” I repeat after him with bravado. The name sounds foreign. He’s definitely not Azgeda. “Who sent you here, John?” I ask, leaning forward, putting my weight on my elbows that rest upon my knees set far apart. I try my best to mimic my father.

  
“What kind of question is that?” He scoffs. His gaze on me is unwavering. I can’t help but let my eyes fall to the floor. I always envisioned how I would meet another human again. It never went like this in my mind.

  
“Who sent you here? The drones? The woman?”

  
“Wha-” he stops, mouth parted, pondering with furrowed brows. “You mean Alie?”

  
I stand quick, knife up and pointed toward him. Slowly I back away, breathing heavy, blood pumping through my veins. I am in immediate danger.

  
“Woah,” he breathes, and for the first time since he’s awakened, his annoyance turns into fear. “Put the knife down,” he says, stern yet barely audible.

  
“Where is she,” I demand, knife shaking in my outstretched hands. I am prepared now, more than ever, to kill this man and leave this home to build a new one. If he knows where I am, she does too.

  
“Seriously, calm the fuck down. I’m not part of that City of Light bullshit, if that’s what all this is about,” he explains, his voice urgent and loud.

  
I’m at a complete loss for words. Frozen, I slowly inch the knife downward, staring at his pleading eyes the whole time. I am too shaken up to hold the knife - my trembling hands drop the blade to the floor and even the sound scares me. I can barely hear through the rush of blood blocking my ears.

  
John is still watching me. Studying me like a specimen he’s never seen.

  
“I’m not a threat, okay? Just let me go.”

  
I shake my head.

  
Rolling his eyes, he throws his head back cursing under his breath.

  
"How long are you gonna keep me tied up for?”

  
“Forever,” I manage through shallow breaths.

  
John laughs as though he doesn’t believe me, as if he is mocking my livelihood.

  
“So what - you’re gonna keep me here until you decide you want to kill me?”

  
I lift my eyes off the ground and face his. I nod slowly.

  
“Great,” he mutters as he shifts his position in the chair as much as the ropes will allow. I’ve tied them too tight to be comfortable. I can’t risk him escaping - he’s seen my home. While he doesn’t know how to get here from the spot I captured him at, it’s not far and these woods aren’t too confusing. If he is chipped, he will stop at nothing to drag me down too.

  
I might have to kill him.

  
I might have to kill the only human I’ve seen in seven years.


	3. Hear Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mira finds John hard to manage as his pleading only grows more intense. Unwilling to let him go - out of fear of being found by Alie - she comes up with a solution that could make life easier for both of them.

“So I spent 86 days locked in a bunker just to end up here…”

Again, I shut John out and continue striking the thin flint over the bush of dried leaves I gathered earlier in the week. He won’t shut up and all I can think about is hearing him for the first time, the twig snapping, his body passing across my vision…

Everything changed in that second.

“Just untie me-”

“Would you shut up already?” I snap, twisting my neck back to face him. My face feels contorted, overcome by a sense of anger I’ve never felt.

John stops speaking and I expect him to retract and be silent for just a moment. But he fights back. Harder than before. The anguish in his eyes grows darker as his sharp jaw clenches, teeth pressed together, and his arms pull away from the wall - he’s trying to break free.

I have no choice but to stand and search for a quick solution. It’s hard to concentrate under the pressure of his yelling. His anger emanates off his helpless body, piercing me and urging me to freeze. Instead, I grab his coat that lay on the ground.

“Just fucking untie me,” he manages between breaths, grunting with every jolt of his body. I stand before him, jacket in hand, and watch as he kicks and twists with no luck. 

“If you break out of those ropes, John,” I say in a calm voice masking my shaken mind, “I’ll have no choice but to kill you.” 

He urges his shoulders forward in one last effort to escape, but ultimately gives up as I walk behind him, place the chest of the jacket over his mouth, and tie the sleeves tightly behind his head. 

“I don’t want to hear your voice again today, you understand?”

He doesn’t offer any response - no nod of the head, no mumbled understanding, just a dead fire in his eyes that looks like defeat.

I go back to work on the dried leaves which soon house a tiny spark. I drop the flint and grab another handful of dead grass. Positioning myself parallel to the ground, I blow gently on the spark, watching white smoke stream upward, growing as I cover the fire with additional foliage. My father taught me how to build a fire before I could walk. The Queen ordered that every child know basic survival skills so we could focus on fighting when we were of age. 

I never made it that far, thankfully. I don’t think I possess the darkness it takes to take another human life. I suppose that’s why I silenced him - maybe he truly thinks I will kill him. 

And maybe I will if I need to.

 

***

 

The room is warm now, the fire cracking and glowing, bouncing to each side as I walk past. A beautiful aroma of fresh herbs and salty meat dizzies me. The rabbit I caught this morning simmers in the stew above the fire along with some greens, freshwater onions, and any edible flowers I could find. John has fallen asleep on the chair. His neck bends forward in a way that’s too uncomfortable to look at. But I do - I look at him. For as long as he sleeps, I will look at him. Because I haven’t seen a boy in years - longer than I’ve been in this dugout. It took my aunt and I months to get through the Deadzone. The only boy I saw there was covered in fabrics that shielded his face from the dangerous white sunlight. And the island was void of humans. Well, sane humans that is. They were all chipped.

I don’t consider them human.

Quietly, I move to his side and undo the knots behind his head, letting the jacket drop to the floor. John’s mouth parts open slightly as he breathes shallow in his sleep. I watch the contour of his hollowed cheeks puff with each exhale. I wonder if he’s been chipped. If he was sent here by the woman to slowly gain my trust, just to rip everything away. 

To be safe, I move to the opposite side of the room where a large bucket is overflowing with scrap metal - tiny shards the size of my finger, flat square blocks, and fragments of short chains. If I can garner enough force, I might be able to shape the scrap metal to match the chains, creating one long metal rope. I grab the medium sized stone that fits perfectly in my hand - I found this one years ago and have kept it ever since. It’s perfect for shaping metal or digging in the dirt. The tough grainy texture creates a grip for my skin.

I place one shard of thin rusted metal and place it on the edge of the table. Raising it above my head, I send my hand down, aiming the rock for the tiny bit of metal that hangs over the surface. With a loud bang, it barely bends the metal at all. I try once more, gritting my teeth and grunting as the rock hits the metal. Still barely any movement.

“Fuck,” I curse, dropping the rock and staring at the metal pieces, defeated. There has to be a better way.

“You know, I could help you if you’d untie me.”

John sits awake in the chair, rotating his neck to relieve it of the pain with a twinge of discomfort on his face. I shake my head no to his offer and try once again. 

“What are you trying to do, anyway?”  
“I’m trying to help you,” I answer. I pick up a piece of the thin metal, examining it in the firelight. He scoffs behind me.

“Help me?” Another laugh. “That’s rich. Yeah, how about you help me by taking that knife you stole from me and cutting these ropes?”

I watch as he rolls his eyes before looking up at me through his dark lashes. His brows are furrowed low on his forehead that beads with sweat. His brown eyes flicker green in the moving light of the fire. They say so much.

“Trust me, if I can get this metal to work, you’ll be a much happier man.”

He raises a brow, curiously confused. 

“Oh great,” he scoffs. “What are you insinuating.”

I roll my eyes, dismissing his jokes.

“If I can get this metal to work, you can sleep on the floor. You can walk around the room. But not without this chain locking you inside.”

At first, he rebuttals with more anger, more insulting glares, more absurdity. But slowly, his face softens and his eyes retract, and he offers a small shrug.

“Sounds good to me,” he agrees. “But let me just ask you one question.”

I stand before him, waiting.

“Why don’t you trust me?”

I stare at the boy, my eyes dancing around his face looking for any signs of a joke. Even though I laugh, I can’t find any. 

“You’re not serious, are you?”

  
“I am.”

  
I turn my head slightly, moving a strand of blonde hair caught in my vision and wait hopelessly to be transported to anywhere but here. I can’t count on my hand the number of people who’ve asked me that question. Right before they screw me over.

I’m not that naive girl anymore.

“John, I will never trust you.”


	4. Broadripple Is Burning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Murphy attempts to learn more about the girl who keeps him imprisoned.

Tonight is particularly rough. Most nights suck, but this is worse. Strange - I thought I would be happy, or at least relieved, to meet another person for the first time since I was eleven. But it has only added stress, fear, and tested my patience. 

It reminds me of the obstacles we faced to get here - me and my aunt. The decision to leave Azgeda in hopes of finding the City of Light was an easy one for her. She heard of it in passing while visiting a plagued village. The survivors told her they were soon to be embarking on the journey to the safe haven. They didn’t know much, but their faith was enough to inspire her. 

Once the Queen ordered my mother to be executed, there was no other option. She packed us each a small pack of supplies, clothes, and memories before grabbing my hand in the night. We walked for hours that night, the threat of howling wolves and rustling trees haunting our trek. I had no idea how bad it would get once we hit the Deadzone. I would kill to have my biggest threat be wolves.

I’ve been hitting this rock against metal for hours. A few times, I miss, and send the rock soaring down onto my thumb. This time, it bleeds open and blood gushes from the wound, staining the rock, the table, and John’s jacket that I wear now as my own.

“Shit,” I curse, slamming the rock onto the wooden table and extending my arm away as far as I can to avoid any more blood pouring onto the jacket. I grab the pocket of the coat where the red is stained against the charcoal grey fabric. 

“Great,” John says through an exhale with a smirk that makes me want to punch him. “First you knock me out,” he begins. I immediately roll my eyes, applying pressure to the wound while looking up at him. “Then you kidnap me,” he adds. “Then you steal my stuff just to bleed all over it.” 

I say nothing, giving him a moment to bask in his amusement. His thick eyebrows sit rested high upon his forehead. 

“Tell me. What’s next.”

“Depends,” I answer, gritting my teeth through the pain as I rip off a piece of the grey fabric, fastening it in a tight knot around the cut. “If you keep talking, I’ll put that knife of yours to your throat. If you let me be, I’ll hook you up to the chain and you can have your little bit of freedom. Your choice.”

I hear him scoff but I pay it no mind as I pick the rock up and continue where I left off. My thumb throbs under the pressure of the fabric. I grunt with each swing, this time paying extra caution to not injure myself again. My physical abilities are all I’ve got left. My mental abilities are wearing fast.

“What’s your name?”

At first I think I’m hearing things or he’s setting me up for some kind of joke. I’m shocked at the simplicity of his question. There’s no demand from me, just conversation. I’ve forgotten what that’s like.

“Didn’t you hear me? Don’t talk.”

“What, I can’t ask your name?”

I bite my tongue, clenching my teeth to prevent the angry outburst I feel swelling up in my heaving chest. 

“You’re not a good listener,” is all I say.

“You’re not a good talker.”

I freeze. Look up. Send him all the irritation my eyes can muster. If only he knew how long I've been silent. I never stood a chance to be a good communicator. Not with people. 

“You have no idea what I’ve been through.”

“Yeah, so let’s start by getting your name.”

“Mira,” I say, giving up. 

I look up just in time to see John nod, pursing his lips in a tight line. 

“So, Mira,” he repeats. My name sounds foreign coming from his mouth. I haven’t heard my name in all of seven years. It makes me uncomfortable, but mostly sad. My father named me and took great pride in it. I look away again, swallowing the urge to cry in front of this boy. He opens his mouth to speak again, his eyes light with amusement as he smirks up at me in a mischievous glare. “What exactly have you ‘been through’?”


	5. Calgary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Murphy stops cooperating and it causes Mira to question her presumptions of him.

“You have a lot of nerve,” I tell John. He doesn’t seem to care, sitting where I’ve tied him, visibly aching as he shifts positions in the creaking wooden chair. He must not be very patient because he’s only been sitting there for about eight hours. Hell, I’ve sat on the hard floor in the corner in the same crouched position for nearly twelve when the drones were flying above my dugout.

“Why’s that - because I’m asking questions? Because I’m curious? Because I’d like to know just a little bit about the person who has apparently claimed me as their slave?”

“Shut up,” I spit back, disgusted by his comment. “I’m no monster. You’re the one who wandered onto my territory. You’re the one with the chip.”

“What the hell, you’re not serious. Are you?” John scoffs, releasing a short breath through his thin nose as he shakes his head in amusement. It’s not the first time he’s acted surprised. That’s right - a _ cted.  _ I’m not buying his charade. “Unbelievable.”

“That’s right - you are,” I snap back. “I can’t be sure, so I have to assume the worst.”

He rolls his eyes and I’m captivated by their ability to shift from deep brown to emerald as the fire dances across their glossy surface. 

Eyes like a snake.

He is not to be trusted.

“Alright,” he smirks, eyebrows perched high above his defeated face. “Then kill me. Because I’d rather be dead than stuck down here with you.”

I stop. His voice is shaken as he speaks harsh words through his tight lips, pressed into an quivering line. I study his eyes. I search between the brown and the green, looking for any sign of truth. They’re too dark, too deep. And his expression is too smug to trust. 

“Pretend all you want, John. Only time will tell.”

I back away, offering him a sly smirk before turning back to tend the fire and stir the stew. It has developed a wonderful color and a mouthwatering scent. I don’t care if the meat isn’t yet cooked. I can’t wait another second. I keep my eating utensils in a basket I weaved years ago - one of many that I’ve slowly acquired from long days and sleepless nights. Weaving the green and orange leaves in thin, intricate threads is the only reason I’m still somewhat sane. For the short time that I’m weaving, the baskets give me a sense of purpose. My one goal in that moment isn’t just to survive - it’s to complete the project. The baskets sit in piles around the dim room like pots of colorful flowers.

I dig through the large basket until I find a bowl. This one is also woven from leaves that I had gathered from the line of trees on the beach east of my dugout. Those trees carry the largest, brightest, thickest leaves. Perfect for sturdy baskets, cups, and bowls. I walk over to the pot of soup and scoop out a large serving, careful not to burn my skin in the boiling broth. 

After a gentle blow of cool air I watch the steaming soup as I bring it to my lips, closing my eyes as the savory juice hits my dry tongue, exploding into a thousand flavors, all distinct yet complementary. I let out an exhale of satisfaction and enjoy the warming sensation that travels down my throat and into my empty stomach.

After downing half the bowl, I carefully walk the remaining soup over to John who sits calmly, chin down, looking up at me with the most indignant expression I’ve ever seen.

“Don’t tease me,” he mutters between clenched teeth.

“I’m not,” I retaliate, my voice a bit louder than intended. “Here.”

I guide the bowl to his lips. At first, he doesn’t open his mouth. He keeps his lips tightly locked in a thin line. He doesn’t blink as he shoots a glare directly into my eyes. I want to turn away with every cell of my being, but I must stand my ground. This is my home. He is the one tied up.

“Five seconds,” I warn him. He doesn’t budge. The wheels in his mind are moving and I don’t like it.

“Four.”

Nothing.

“Three. Two.”

I stand still. The bowl sits under his nose. The stew is hot, steaming in front of him. But he doesn’t look at it. He only looks at me.

“One.” I pull back the bowl and hold it close to my body. I wait for him to blink but soon realize I will be standing here all night. He is a statue, except for his mouth which curls ever so slightly into a twisted smirk, barely visible. 

“If you’d please just kill me now and save me the days of suffering, I’d appreciate it.”

His words haunt me.

Because his dry plead for death must mean he’s human. The woman won’t let him die until she finds out where we are.  _ Right _ ?

“Well,” he questions, one eyebrow raised at me. “Will you?”


	6. Bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mira continues working on the chain that will allow Murphy to walk around the dugout, though he doesn't give up trying to talk his way out of her grasp.

"It needs to be long enough for you to walk around, but short enough so it won't reach the exit," I mumble, mostly to myself, but loud enough for John to hear. He's especially snappy with me today as I had no other choice but to make him sleep in the stiff chair. The chains weren't ready last night and there is no way in hell that I am ever going to let him sleep on the floor without the metal securing him in place.

"How much longer," he sighs, his thick brown hair hanging in damp strands behind the chair as he tries to relax his sore neck.

I shrug, twisting a piece of sharp metal in the firelight, examining its curves and dents. The stone in my hand still has blood on it from the countless misfires. At this rate, I really will need his help in finishing the project if I want to keep any movement of my hands. With each cut, I rip off another section of his jacket, using it as bandage over my wounds. This doesn't help his worsening mood.

"I'm nearly finished," I assure him, slamming the rock onto the edge of the metal. It bends into a U shape and I connect it to the end of the chain, hitting it again to close it tightly around the coil. "About seven feet down, so one half to go."

"You know, it's alarming how dedicated you are to keeping me trapped down here."

"Same could be said about you and your determination to try and change my mind."

I barely hear him laugh. I have to bite my lip to keep myself from being any more mean to him today. Sure, he's annoying as all hell, but it's true. He is a prisoner. Life must suck for him. Especially now since I've decided wholeheartedly that I will never let him out of my sight. No amount of pleading in the world can convince me he's innocent. Even though he  _might_ not chipped, one thing is for sure: he is not to be trusted.

"What more will it take," he asks, although the ever-present sass is no longer there. Instead, it's replaced with a sense of urgency. I turn for a moment to examine his face. The grin is wiped clean. His eyes are heavy, tired, and set over dark bags of sleeplessness. His entire expression is somber. "What more will it take for you to believe me."

I remind myself who the enemy is here.

"I'm already not eating. I've begged you to kill me."

I have to look away.

"So tell me," he mutters. "Once I'm too weak to breathe and you find me dead one morning, then will you believe me?"

He is convincing. But not convincing enough.

"Eighty-six," I say through an exhale, annoyed at his charade.

"Excuse me?"

"Eighty-six days, you said. Locked in a bunker." I remember what he said. I look up at him, scraping the dull rock across the rough metal, flattening it while I grind my teeth. "Where?"

"East," he says, cocking his head that way. "That bitch locked me in. No sunlight."

I can't help but let out a quiet laugh. "Am I supposed to feel bad for you?"

I catch him in my peripheral, rolling his eyes until they're locked on the dirt ceiling. "Of course not. We all know you're incapable of said feelings."

"Yeah, that wasn't always the case," I whisper before sending the rock hard against the metal and hooking it to the rest of the long chain that grows with each coil.

"Really?" He sounds intrigued and I notice a slight glimmer to his dark eyes. "So what changed you?"

Sighing, I collect the now complete chain, twisting it into a ball in my sore hand. It takes a minute to travel back into my history, a place I've tried to forget all these years. But no matter how hard I suppress the thoughts, the memories visit me at night, haunting my dreams, reminding me of the innocent girl I used to be. It's a fair question. Even today I'm surprised at how cold I have become. With each passing year, I grow more and more distant from my past. My parent's love. My happy beginning.

"Well," I begin, lingering on the word to buy time. "Parents were rebels. Parents were killed. Somehow the universe decided I deserved to live. Banished from the clan. More death. And here I am." I offer a joking smile, masking the pain that lives inside it.

"Hm," John nods, his face clear of emotion except for the slightest smirk appearing at one corner of his dry lips. "Sounds like you and I have got a lot in common."


	7. Breathe Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emotions escalate as the two continue to disagree. Mira has a hard time dealing with Murphy and it shows.

"I'm nothing like you, John," I roll my eyes, pretending to shrug him off as I survey the wall for a place to secure the chain, but truthfully I'm wrapped up in his conversation. It's news to me, that he's suffered his share at the hands of the enemy, but nothing compares to the shit I've been through.

At least that's what I keep telling myself.

"Suit yourself," he shrugs, still smirking up at me as I ignore him. It's the kind of smirk that justifies punching him again, but I decide to play nice today. Instead, I set the long, heavy chain down onto the floor and pick up the knife I've laid carefully on the table. I twist it around in my small hands, observing the weight and the glimmer of the "J.M" etched deep into the metal.

"But maybe," he continues, his eyes squinted like slivers, "...it wouldn't be so bad for you to have someone to relate to."

I can't contain the laughter this time. I try to study his expression. He's either truthful and sincere or he's an expert in the art of manipulation. He'd fit in well with Azgeda.

"You laugh like you're trying so hard to hate me," he explains. "Just let it go, Mira. We're going to be down here together for a while. You made sure of that."

Finally, I turn on my heels, ready to play his games. Initially, I wanted the day to go smoothly, but John has a way of talking himself into trouble. I can never tell when he's joking or scheming. The glint of unrest in his shallow eyes is ever present and unwavering. He has places to be, things to do. He's losing his mind stuck down here.

Welcome to my life.

"What makes you think I want a friend?" I ask, curiosity sparking my voice. I stand before him, slightly leaned against the wobbly wooden table that takes up most of the space in this tiny, poorly lit dirt home.

"You don't want one, but you need one."

There he goes again. Acting like he knows what's best for me.

"If you don't stop talking, I'm force feeding you breakfast."

"Go ahead. Only proves my point."

I raise a brow, confused.

"You need me. You want me to live. Empty threats are all you offer." His voice is sharp and sour and, unfortunately, convincing. "You've been here long enough to create this little home, and I don't see anyone else around. You're lonely."

"John, shut up," I warn him. My voice starts low and shaky, but if he continues, I'll explode loud enough to shake the dirt off the walls.

"I can't count the number of times you've threatened to end my life. Well? What are you waiting for? I've  _begged_ you." He's laughing now. I can barely see through the anger clouding my vision, but I can see enough to notice the twist of his lips. "What has it been? Months? A year?"

"Stop it," I get louder. So does he. An intrigued smile spreads across his evil face, like he's proud of the torment he's causing me. Unable to control myself, I clench my teeth and grip the knife until my knuckles hurt.

"When is the last time you've seen another person? It's been a while, huh. That's why you're so detached."

"Enough!" I scream, and send the knife soaring toward the voice that won't stop. At first, I fear it may have actually hit him. I'm scared to look up. I'm scared to see what I've done.

Then I hear him breathe.

The knife sits lodged deep into the wall behind him. Inches above his head that stays still, eyes peering up at me through a thick row of long lashes. His smirk is gone, but he knows he's already won. He got what he wanted.

He broke me. Proved his point.

I am lonely.

But I've proved mine too: I'm willing to kill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, all! Yes, this is very frequently updated as I have already posted 14 chapters elsewhere over the last year. I am just in the process of moving the story to AO3. After chapter 14, expect it to be updated biweekly. Also, the chapters leading up to 10 are quite short, then they begin to get much longer. Thanks for reading!


	8. Swinging From The Castles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Murphy learns more about Mira's past.

Another day wasted.

Most days, however, are productive. I explore the woods when I can - searching for fresh water and hunting small game. If the forest floor is dry, I collect long leaves from the trees along the beach and spend my evenings turning them into baskets. Or I'll skin the rabbits and squirrels that die in my traps and sew the pelts into blankets or coats. Anything to keep my mind preoccupied. If I let it wander, I'll find it in some pretty dark places.

But after our little incident, I couldn't look John in the eye once. I was too upset - though hopefully not visibly - to carry on with anymore tasks for the day. The only thing I managed to complete was installing the chain deep into the wall, making sure it's sturdy enough to withstand his strength. I did not cut any corners. This chain is my lifeline. If it breaks, and he escapes, I'm as good as dead.

I didn't feel like hooking him to the chain just yet, and that only aggravated him more. Think of it as his punishment for trying to break me. I expected him to try to hurt me with his words, but luckily, he didn't say anything. Surely he was thinking something.

My downward gaze didn't stop John from staring at me the entire day, until the sun set and it was too dark to see. Usually after dusk, I light a few candles to illuminate the room. But yesterday I decided to go to sleep with the sun in hopes of ignoring him.

Unfortunately, even sleep couldn't get me away from him. He appeared in my nightmares, taunting me even more, berating me with questions of my past - laughing at my weaknesses and enjoying every moment of it. Sleep is my escape, but this morning I'm relieved to finally wake up.

My stomach echoes and aches as I flutter my dry eyes open. The sunlight begins to pour through the cracks in the boulder and there are no sounds of rain above. Finally - I've been waiting for a nice long day outside, away from this dark pit that hangs heavy with John's displeasure. I feel like I'm a kid again, hiding in my dark room with my angered mother, watching her face twist in disgust, venting to my father about the Queen and her unfair treatment of our family.

Only difference in this scenario is that to John,  _I'm_ the evil queen.

He is still refusing food. Last night, I placed a bowl of the now cold rabbit stew on his lap. Today, the bowl sits upside down on the floor, the watery broth soaked deep into the ruddy dirt. I shrug and pick up the fragile clay bowl and fill it with the rest of the water from my canteen. Walking to the kitchen table, I reach for a jar of dried herbs and pour a few shakes into the water. The leaves immediately expand in the liquid, emitting a beautiful earthy scent that reminds me of the tea my aunt would make every morning.  _Drink it - It feeds the soul,_ she'd say with a bright smile, enjoying her cup near the window of our rugged hut.

I enjoy the memory for as long as I can, sipping the sweet liquid, feeling safe for just a moment. Until, of course, reality slaps me in the face.

"When will you finally let me on that fucking chain," John mutters, gritting his teeth as he struggles to stretch his sore muscles. "My legs have been cramping for the past 48 fucking hours. You're more cruel than most Grounders."

I ignore his plea, but one word catches my attention.

"Grounders? What the hell is that?"

"It's what my people call your people. Along with barbarians and jackasses." I scoff at his absurdity and shake my head. My arms fold across my chest as I watch him helpless in the chair, squirming his torso in an effort to ease the stiffness of his spine.

"Oh yeah? And who exactly are  _your_ people? Judging by the sound of your name, I've never heard of them, which means you're probably a pretty weak, underwhelming group."

This strikes an obvious chord within him. He stops squirming just to laugh at me.

"If you think my people are weak, I'm terrified to see how yours are."

"You should be," I warn him. Not because I think I'm threatening, but because my people are evil. In fact, it feels wrong to call them  _my_ people. I want nothing to do with the people responsible for the death of my parents and the absolute destruction of a happy childhood.

I would never wish he gets the unfortunate chance of running into Azgeda, if he hasn't already. With how much I hate him, that's saying quite a lot.

"So tell me, which stupid clan are you from. Trikru? Ice Nation? Or some shit I've never heard of…"

He says it so nonchalantly, so effortlessly, as if the word  _Azgeda_  were written on my pale face. The more I learn of what he knows, the more uneasy I become, and the more I regret ever pulling him down here with me.

"How did you know," I ask, terse and fixed on him.

"Know what? You never answered."

"Azgeda."

He looks shocked for just a moment before shrugging. His dark brows hang high upon his forehead as his eyes glaze over me, analyzing me as if I've grown a second pair of legs. Finally, he opens his mouth to speak, and while I can't stand his voice, I'm glad the silence is over.

"Can't say I'm surprised. But it does make me hate you just a little bit more."


	9. Pretty Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mira's nightmares are plagued by ghosts of her past. Meanwhile, Murphy struggles to deal with his unrelenting imprisonment.

_My mother stands, unmoving like the eerie stillness of the air. The whole town is here, unwilling to miss the latest event. The queen sits tall at her wooden throne, curling her thin lips into a satisfied grin. Finally, she will rid her reign of the blemishes who persisted regardless of her warnings. Finally, she will watch that long sword spear straight through the woman who gave me life, who gave me purpose._

_I can't feel my body. In fact, I can't speak or move or close my eyes. I'm a statue begging to dance free. My face must be contorted in some sort of spectacle because thousands of eyes penetrate my soul. Dirty scarred faces, bloodied knuckles, torn clothes - these are my people. You can spot Azgeda based on the merciless grins they love to wear, the murder they flaunt._

_The queen's son steps into view - gripping a sharp metal blade with a leather glove. His long hair covers his face, but I know he's smiling. And as he begins to jolt the sword toward my mother, I pry my mouth open to scream -_

"What the hell!?" I cry, twisting my body to retrieve the knife hidden under my pillow. The cold hand that held my arm rips away in a scurry as I begin to aim the knife at the intruder.

"Goddamn, would you relax?" John replies at an uncomfortably loud volume. His voice brings me a moment of relief, glad that it's only him. I drop the knife but the anger doesn't fade one bit. For a brief moment, I forget that I hooked him up to the new chains before going to sleep. It's odd to see him standing, walking around my home as far as the chain permits.

"What were you  _doing_?" I demand, continuing the yelling match. Still, it takes me a while to realize I am awake and it was all only a dream.

Well, it wasn't  _always_ a dream - mom is still dead and those awful people still exist in the real world.

"Oh, sorry for checking on you," he begins, sarcasm dripping from his tired voice. His arms lift and drop as he speaks. "You wouldn't stop fucking yelling, it was driving me insane. I don't think I've slept more than 10 minutes."

I can barely make out the contours of his face in the dim candlelight that dances across the back wall. His eyes are furrowed as his jaw hangs open, waiting for my response. The chains that secure him clash together with an unpleasant ring. Even when I can't see him, I feel vulnerable and exposed. Yelling? In my sleep? I guess I would never know all these years without someone else to witness. Maybe these agonizing nightmares have always made me scream in my sleep.

John paces the floor, the chains clanging over the loud heartbeat drumming in my ears. My face feels hot to the touch, fuming with anger and shock.

"You can't just touch me while I'm sleeping. You're lucky you spoke before I let that knife soar."

John chuckles, making me feel small again. Nothing I say is ever good enough for him.

"So where does it end?" He asks.

"What?" I respond, confused. I feel my eyebrows pinch together.

"Where does the torment end?"

I take a long moment to question his sincerity. Not this again.

"John, would you stop say-"

"No! Where does it end? I sat in that chair for  _three fucking days_ ," he begins, pacing the floor so quick I fear he may trip. His voice is so loud, so bitter and sharp, that I recoil deeper into the sheets. "Oh, and lets not forget the countless times you threatened to end my life - I wish you would have just  _done it_." He stops and turns his heels to face me. The candle dances brighter, illuminating the sheer glimmer of his dark eyes, staring right at me as a wave of guilt rushes over my body. "You knocked me out and dragged me down here. Is one night of sleep too much to ask?"

I can't respond. I've never seen him so broken. I find myself wishing he were that annoying ass I dragged down here, who sat locked in his chair, his words his only weapon. Now his emotion is his weapon - it eats at me. Every bleak expression that wears his hopeless face drives me deeper and deeper down this path of guilt he's forced upon me. I feel stuck - unsure of his sincerity. I keep telling myself it's for the best. It's for survival. 

"One thing's for sure, Mira. You certainly are Azgeda."


	10. World Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mira seriously doubts her actions. She enters a war in her mind against the person she used to be and the person she was forced to become.

Needless to say, it's been a sleepless night from the moment I woke, screaming as John nudged me into consciousness. It's hard to relax enough to drift off into a dream when you know for certain that dream will turn sour. But after how things played out, I would rather have stayed in that paralyzing nightmare than to hear John spit those words.

_Azgeda, Azgeda, Azgeda_ … replays in my tired mind, John's voice sharp and spewing hate. His thin lips curling in disgust at the word - in disgust at  _me._

As he manages to quickly fall asleep after the dispute, I watch how uncomfortable he must be - neck bent forward without support, his back curved forward along the edge of the hard wall he uses as a lousy bed. I mean - he has no other choice. I only have one bed, only ever needed one bed.

I wonder what he's dreaming of. Is he back home, wherever that may be? Is he stuck down here in an exhilarating adventure in which he manages to break free from my prison? Or is he stuck in his own hell, as bad as mine, perhaps even more dreary than the bleak sky over Azgeda…

_You certainly are Azgeda._

John sure has a way with words, especially ones that sting.

I shut out the guilt he's placed on me and decide to continue as if he's not here, as if I never had the pleasure of stumbling across him, as if I have the comfort of my solitude once again. And for the remainder of his sleep, however long or short that may be, I do have some solitude.

I begin by updating the tallied wall I've been neglecting. Grabbing the thick sharp stone from the floor, I secure it in the palm of my hand and place the tip deep into the crumbling wall. Soon, five tiny tally marks appear, symbolizing the past five days of my life - five long, hard, unexpected days with John.

Five days.

If he was truly involved with the woman of the mansion, perhaps something awful would have happened to me by now. And maybe John would stop begging to die.

It's getting harder and harder to believe the conspiracy I tell myself.

The pain and anguish in his dark eyes haunt me now. Maybe I am a truly awful person. Maybe he is telling the truth and I'm choosing to negate him. Maybe he really is suffering, inside and out, and I am the devil to him as the Queen was to me.

I need to get out of here. Grabbing a burlap sack, I tie it around my waist and head toward the exit. I cannot share these tiny quarters with a man who despises me just as I despise all those who've forced pain upon me. Before the guilt swallows me whole, I have a hand on the first metal rung and pull my fatigued body up into the cold, dark night.

John is sleeping anyway, but even when he wakes I will not be afraid to leave him there alone. The chains are tight and too short for him to reach knives, rocks, or anything else that may aid him in escaping.

It's been years since I let myself up into the forest at night. Who knows what is lurking around under the thick blanket of darkness that blinds my travels? I may be a fool to attempt a nighttime hunt and gather, so that's why I'll stay within sight of the boulder that marks my home. I've been meaning to gather some food from the trees and bushes that grow right above the hole. Some berries, an assortment of leaves, and even some insects that graze the forest floor.

I begin with the berries, checking the bush directly next to the boulder for any new growth I can harvest. My fingers gently brush against the thin twigs of the plant, focusing my vision on it in such complete darkness - the only source is the cloud covered moon - just enough to spot a decent patch of berries. I pluck them one by one until I hold a sizable handful and pocket them carefully, my hands stained blush red.

The night is eerily silent, no wind to rustle the leaves, no patters of paws over the brush, just my own rugged breath and soft footsteps as I scan the sky. No drones - and even if there are, I will hear them from miles away in this stillness. Even so, I work quickly, enjoying my time but eager to get back to safety.

I lift a large disk-like rock to reveal the bottom where countless ants and centipedes scatter. But in the center, a rather long slug sits still. I grab it, pinching with my nails until it's dead and pocket it. I do this again until I have 7 - 4 for me and 3 for John.

Before I head back down, I pick enough leaves to fill the small burlap sack that hangs from my waist. I figure this total harvest will feed us for a day or two, but I will still need to come back up in the morning for fresh water.

With a hand on the boulder, I stop for a moment, lifting my head toward the sky. The moon slowly eases into view, the clouds moving like snails across the night sky. I feel the ghost of a hand on my shoulder.

_If ever you feel lost, if ever you feel sad, if ever you need a sign to keep going - look at the heart on the moon. That's my heart._

My eyes glaze over the bright, blinding heart-shaped crater. I fight back the tears and allow the voice of my father play like music in my mind. Smiling once more at the symbol in the sky, I remove the boulder and duck inside.

When my vision finally adjusts to the dimly lit cave, John is not where I left him. He's a bundle under the sheets on my bed, laying on his side and dead asleep. While my eyelids flutter closed, heavy with the need for rest, I just stand and watch him. The candlelight is calm as it illuminates the curves of his body, the thin sheets rising and falling with his steady breath.

I step closer to find his face, buried against the side of the makeshift pillow: dead foliage encased in thick, itchy burlap. His lips are pressed closed, gently extended as he enjoys the pleasure of deep sleep. Just like a statue, beautifully crafted, lines accentuated by the soft light. Unmoving, serene, picturesque. Such an opposing sight from the anger he encompassed just hours ago.

I have developed a bad habit of watching John sleep. It's the closest I've felt to a human since I was young. He looks almost happy, tucked away there with his face relaxed and free from worry lines. When he's awake, however, the walls he builds around himself prevent me from entering his true character. Funny, since I do the exact same thing to block him out.

Maybe we've both lost too many people to be so dumb as to let it happen again.


	11. Crystal Cave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new discovery forces Mira to be skeptical of Murphy.

"Rather sleep on the floor than next to me?"

John's voice bounces in my head as I lift my sore neck off the dirt ground. My eyes are blurry while I peel open my heavy eyelids, scanning the candlelit room for John.

He's standing in the kitchen, two thin wooden plates laid before him, vibrantly colored with food - leaves, grass, and the dead slugs I brought back.

"I must say - I'm a little shocked you didn't literally kick me out of your bed," he says with a dose of pride, amused at his tiny victory.

"It's a shame," I respond, pushing all my weight onto my arms and lifting my tired body from the floor. I brush the tiny rocks and specs of sand that wedge themselves deep into my skin. "Now who will you blame for all the torment in your life?"

"Still you," he snaps back, but there's much less venom in his words this morning. He seems well rested, and the usual deadness in his eyes is absent for now. I sit at the table and John pushes a plate my way. I count the slugs - one, two, three…

"I see you've helped yourself to my food," I say before joining him at the table and taking a bite. The bitter juice from the leaves spill onto my tongue, an oddly refreshing meal after days with little water supply.

John shrugs, lighting yet another candle as he sits down across from me. The room is brighter than it's ever been, and the tiny flames actually give off a nice heat. "I don't think you can really call this food," he says, picking up a slug and examining it in the candlelight, turning it around with intrigue.

"Oh really?" I beam, lifting my brows. "Tell me, John. What delicious foods did you have the honor of eating when you were trapped for 86 days?"

He smirks in amusement.

"At least the cardboard shit there wasn't covered in dirt and slime."

"How'd you get stuck there?" I ask, and watch his face immediately drop. I want to cut the small talk. This stranger has been in my home for days and I still know nothing about him, other than he's a complete ass. He lowers his hand, the fork he holds sticking straight up as his knuckles turn white from the grip. John looks away and exhales before cocking his head toward my gaze.

"I'll save you the trouble of knowing the bullshit that is my people."

"They can't be much worse than Azgeda," I say. He shrugs.

"They're both evil in their own ways," he reasons, piercing a slug with his fork. He struggles to chew the bite, his lips upturning in disgust.

"Let me guess," I start. "You came to the City of Light in hopes of starting over after they banished you?" I ask, testing his honesty. He says he has no connection with the lady - Alie, as he called her - and the drones, but I won't let him off that easy.

I seem to have struck a chord, because John stops chewing, his face returning to the normal blank stare he bares. The only glimmer in his eye is the reflection of the candle, dancing across the shady grey circles.

"His name's Jaha," John begins, swallowing the lump in his throat. "He somehow convinced me to travel with him - moment of weakness for me, I suppose."

"Do you have moments of weakness?" I ask and he replies with a slight smirk.

"Well, I'm having one right now. I'm so desperate that I'm actually talking to you."

"Ouch," I respond. "I thought someone who claims they're innocent would be happy to tell their whole, true story." John rolls his eyes and I watch the wheels in his mind turn as he hesitates to continue.

"Anyway," he sighs, "he promised we'd find this place. And we did - I guess, but it was nothing we expected, as I'm sure you've figured out."

"You mean you don't like being greeted by killer drones?" I ask.

"Killer?" John raises a brow, scanning my face.

"Yeah…" I exhale. I feel my face freeze, muscles moving slowly through each expression. Confusion, interest, fear… "They didn't see you, or…?"

"They saw us," he explains, nonchalantly, as if there would be no other answer. "They guided us here."

I am breathless, letting my body sink into the wooden chair. My mind tumbles over my pouring thoughts, wondering why the drones would kill my aunt, but let John walk free. Not just walk - be guided in.

The blood pumps quickly through my veins and before I can stop myself, I stand, dizzy from the rush, and flip the table, watching it soar across the room. Plates, food, water, and candles fling off the table in every direction, wax splattering onto the walls like paint.

"Hey, Mira," John whispers, now standing, his arms extended to protect himself. "Just, just calm dow-"

"Calm down?" I scream. "Really?"

He backs away slowly, his arms a buffer zone between our bodies. John's face turns pale as his stormy eyes struggle to stare at me.

"I think you're lying to me, John," I say through staggered breaths, my shoulders rising as I fight for air.

"What the hell-"

I cut him off.

"Either she wants to work with you, or you're already working for her."

John's brows furrow as he lowers his arms.

"And I think it's the latter."


	12. Don't You Cry For Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mira continues to be cautious of John, unprepared for the tricks he holds up his sleeves.

"I really don't want to do this to you again," I say, sliding the chair across the dirt floor until it's feet align with the four divots where it sat before, for days, with John's weight pressing it deeper and deeper into the earth with every one of his desperate movements. Every time I begin to feel sorry for John and question myself for keeping him locked down here, he says something that reminds me of how dangerous he truly might be.

"So why are you?" He asks. Begs. His voice is heavy with pleading, although he is trying to appear strong. He stands against the wall before me, head rolling with no particular beat while he watches me decide his fate yet again. I catch the deep wells of his cheeks, hollow like our stomachs, and for the first time, he looks a lot like something I know all too well. A prisoner.

"Look, I've started eating, just like you wanted. I stayed away from the exit. You fell asleep and woke up, and I'm still here. What more do you want from me?" He moves his arms around as he speaks, urgency shaking his voice. I watch him in my peripheral as I grab the thick ropes I used to tie him up the first time. "Why?"

His question tosses around in my blurry mind.  _Why?_

For a moment, I'm transported into a calmer state of mind. My heart slows and my eyes close. When they open, I'm on my father's lap. The fire in front of us burns my young skin, but the heat feels good - welcoming, like a hug. My father sings to me as he prods the flames with a long stick, and I watch the embers soar high above us, dancing as they reach for the ceiling of our humble home.

" _Where did you learn that song?" I ask him. He smiles._

" _I wrote it for you. When you were too young to stand."_

" _What's it called?"_

" _Mira."_

" _That's all?"_

" _All?" He sets the stick down at our feet, and the blackened tip sends out a light stream of smoke, like a butterfly exploring the small room. "Mira is a powerful name," he says with a look of assurance._

_I urge him to continue with a face of bewilderment._

" _Your mother knows of languages from long long ago. Languages that died in Praimfaya. She holds books of knowledge from the world that existed before ours."_

_I smile, picturing my mother sat near the window, book in hand every morning._

" _She said, of all the words of all the languages she's read, Mira is the most powerful. The most wise."_

" _What does it mean?" I beg, inching closer to his face, admiring the flame that dances in his eyes._

" _To see. Sight. Vision," he breathes, hanging onto every word with great importance. "You are a visionary, Mira. You can always see a brighter tomorrow. The shackles of this world can never hold you down."_

John's chains clank against the floor as he walks in circles, pulling me out of my memory. The warm embrace of my father vanishes in an instant. I wish I could go back. Just stand here, still, and sink back into that past reality. Just for one moment - one second longer. But, John is restless, and the chains he carries in circles with him only grow louder in this echoing pit. Suddenly, he stops, and the metal rests in place.

"Look, I know things that you want to know. Things that wouldn't make sense to you right now."

"Oh, really? Like what," I question, spitting the words out like fire, unable to control the rapid pulse in my veins. Every word he says is another slap in the face of everyone I've ever loved. My aunt. My mother. My father. He makes their deaths sound meaningless. He makes every night I've spent hidden away inside this hole seem pointless. He makes my survival seem stupid. "The only thing I want to know is how to get you to shut up for just one second."

"So you want power, then," he continues, ignoring every wish I have for him to stop dragging this on. I look at him - differently this time -  _really_ look at him. I feel my face twisting as my vision narrows, my eyes like slivers, struggling to grasp his true emotion. He lifts his head from its relaxed position against the wall and takes a confident step toward me. Slowly. "You want me - " He moves ahead with each word. " - to sit still -" Until he's inches from my face. My eyes are glued to his features as the candle light illuminates inch after inch. First, the slow disappearance of his grin. Then the sudden furrow of his brows. And finally, the shuddering power in his eyes as his arms extend and he jolts the chair out of my grip. And I let him, because I'm too taken aback to react quick enough. He slams the chair against the ground, the wooden feet sinking deep into the ruddish dirt, and turns his back to it.

"You want me to be quiet," he says with intensity. I take a step back. For the first time, I back down, unsure of the true power of his strength and not wanting to find out. As I grow the distance between us, I watch him fall into the chair. I shudder at the unexpected shrill of chains that hit the floor with his movements. The heavy metals kick up dust around us. "You want me to play your game."

Silence.

I see nothing else except his eyes. The world around me turns black, but John's stare is gripping me at every limb.

"I promise I'll behave this time," he says, unable to prevent the grin that slowly appears at the corners of his mouth. He's amused. I would be. I probably look like a lost animal - in my own home, too.

"Well?" He continues, bringing me back to reality. He laughs, and it echoes louder than ever, casting a fog of confusion inside me. "Tie me up."


	13. The Stranger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mira encounters something unexpected in the woods.

Dealing with John is more exhausting than surviving down here with nothing but my own two hands and my racing mind. He's like a child. Always changing. Always a new complaint. One moment he's moody and brooding, storms clouding his eyes, using the harshest words he can think of to break me like a fallen ceramic. And the next moment he's feisty, a permanent grin on his tired face, thinking of anything he can say to get under my nerves for a little amusement. I believe this is my karma for keeping him locked down here. Sure, it must suck for him to be stuck down here with me, but let's not forget that  _I'm_ stuck down here with  _him._

I don't do what he says. I don't tie him up. It's not needed. And I don't want to give him the satisfaction of calling me controlling. He can't seem to understand - I don't  _want_ him here. I don't  _need_ him here. But now that he knows too much, I have no other options. The chains allowing him to walk around are already more than enough. Hell, the fact that he's still alive is more than enough.

I leave the table flipped on the floor, it's contents spilled across like a gust of wind came through here. I step over dead slugs and green leaves as I make my way to the bed. As I sink into the thin padding of straw and foliage, I begin working through the knotted braids I've worn for weeks. John's eyes are glued to the ceiling as he sits in the chair, stubborn as hell, and his breath is the only sound other than the occasional wind the catches in the exit tunnel through tiny gaps under the boulder. Sunlight peaks through, too, urging me to hurry preparing for a quick adventure outside for fresh water. And now food, too, since I've let my emotions get the best of me again.

I do regret it. Treating him this way. I was always a kind child. Timid and hopeful. But growing up that way in Azgeda means only two things: you'll either be killed for it, or you'll be hardened by the violent and merciless people until you become one of them. I suppose, since my heart is still beating, I'm the latter. My parents - not so.

So really, it's not me treating John this way. It's the person that the world forced me to be. It's the woman with the drones he should blame for this. It's the queen and her son he should blame for my unwillingness to trust.

As I inch my fingers down the long strands of hair, I feel the tightness on my scalp release. Slowly, my hair unravels from their braids, now permanently curled, as the long locks settle and frame my face. I relax, moving my fingertips in gentle circles across my scalp. It's oily and damp, and I imagine how refreshing a cold rinse in the river would feel. With every stroke a few strays pull out, landing like feathers around me. My hair used to be a beautiful golden blonde, like my father's. But with the lack of sunshine all these years, it has decayed into a deep chocolate brown, and is coarse to the touch. It's why I keep it braided and secured and why it feels strange having it caress my ears now.

"Looks nice," John says. I look toward him, brows raised, watching him peer at me without emotion. I don't know how to react. Before I can, my body does - my face flushing hot to the touch. I'm glad there aren't any mirrors so I can't see how red my cheeks must be.

He chuckles.

"It's a compliment. You're supposed to say thanks."

"Thanks," I mutter, pushing myself up and grabbing my backpack.

"Where are you going?" He asks.

Thrown off, I pick at the dirt under my nails without much thought, unable to keep my hands still. I fumble with the zipper before loading the pack up with my empty canteen and the plastic one John brought.

"To get water," I say, my back turned to him as I look toward the exit. "And maybe bathe if it's safe."

"It is safe," he tells me. "The only other person on this island is Jaha."

"I meant the drones."

"Ah," he sighs. "The big, scary drones." His voice is full of mockery. Good to know this morning's scuffle didn't kill his sense of humor - if you can call it that.

"Shut up," I tell him, dry and quiet. I have no energy left to fight with him. I walk toward the exit, picking up the slugs that lay in my path and toss them in my mouth. I winced like John the first time I ate them, too. But now I enjoy them like the candy my aunt would make back home.

I grab the first metal rung and pull my body up. One by one, I climb the ladder, until I reach the boulder. I wait and count. 30 seconds. No drones, just birds and rustling leaves. Pressing my palms against it's cold surface, I grunt as the boulder lifts up and rolls onto the grass above.

"Have fun up there," John's voice carries and echoes below. "Bring me back some sunlight. Oh, wait…"

I roll my eyes as I let the boulder fall back into place, shutting his voice out like killing the flame of a candle.

The sunshine is vibrant, casting over every surface in the most beautiful spectacle I've seen in days. The trees bear deep green leaves, the bark healthy with a dark shade of chocolate brown. My feet crunch over the forest floor as I make my way to the usual path that leads to the stream. On my way, I find a fat squirrel that fell for my trap. Bending over, my back aches, but I pay it no mind, excited at the thought of fresh meat for lunch. I can taste the savory flesh bursting across my dry tongue, eager now to get back and start a fire to cook.

But first, water. As the stream comes into view, I stop briefly and check again for drones. It's safe. I set my pack down and grab the two canteens. Kneeling, I let the fresh water glide into the bottles before capping and placing them back into the pack next to the dead squirrel.

Starting with my shirt, I undress and set the clothes over top my pack. The once white fabric is now a light brown color, deeply impressioned by years of dirt and sweat. I try to keep the few clothes I own clean, but it's usually pointless. However, now with John living with me, I may need to consider a system for washing clothes - that doesn't require him to undress. At least in front of me.

I peel my pants off, the shaded denim sticking to my damp body. It feels amazingly freeing to let the warm breeze dance across my bare skin. The hairs on my arms and legs lift upward with the wind. Lastly, I untie the thin laces of my boots and throw them next to the pack where they land with a thud on the dirt ground.

Finally, I step toward the stream which flows with intensity today. I set one foot in the chilly water, clear as ice, and breathe out all the stress from the week. All the pain and aches of my small body release into the water and swim away with the current. As I adjust to the cold temperature, I lift my other foot and let it sink beneath the surface, standing tall and strong over the rocky floor. I make my way over the pebbles and tiny weeds until I find a shallow, sandy patch where I can sit. Lowering my entire body into the water feels like a shock of energy, the cold water seeping deep into my dirty skin, and surrounds me as I lay flat on the sand. The stream dances across my hair, combing it with its force. For the first time in days, I feel absolutely amazing.

I dive my head under the surface, but only for a moment. I can't let my ears underwater for more than a second - I need them on high alert for drones at all times. Drones - or people now, too.

I want to let my mind relax just as my body does, but of course, I cannot. Every word John says hangs heavy on my thoughts. They are all consuming. Even his sly banter.  _Looks nice._ I want to punch him for making me feel weak. For making me blush. I can't help but think of all the hours I've spent watching him, studying the chisel of his face and the contour of his brows pressed low above his eyes. I think I've memorized every feature, every emotion he wears. When you haven't seen a human in seven years, it's hard to look away. I shake it off.

I wonder if he's right about the drones. If they would kill me. Now that I think about it, the one time they got close to me, they didn't shoot. I thought they would if they got any closer, but I ducked underground before I could find out for sure.

But why did they kill my aunt?

The questions tumble in my mind as I finish up in the stream. I scrub the sand across my skin, starting with my arms and legs, then focusing on my feet and armpits. I let the water brush the dirt off me, turning in murky circles under the surface. No matter what John says about the drones being harmless, it's not something I'm willing to test. As usual, it's best to assume the worst. Always.

I rinse off and step out of the water. The warm breeze chills my wet skin, but I stand there nonetheless, waiting as the droplets glide off my body. I am always surprised to see how much I've grown. My mind has been stuck in the past, a young girl in a fantasy, whisked away into the darkest depths imaginable. But, I survived. I'm no longer that young girl. I've aged tremendously. In ways, it was inevitable. But I can't help but wonder how blissful my life would be today had my parents not been killed. I look down at my now drying body - I'm taller, but not by much. The lack of food has likely stunted my growth to some degree. The bruises from hard living speckle my pale skin, but they tell the story of a girl who fought for her place in a forest surrounded by danger.

I hurriedly throw my clothes on and grab my belongings. I encourage the hot sun to beat down even more, taking no mercy on my skin, as I head back - wanting to devour every last drop of natural light before I enter the dark once again.

And just as the boulder comes into view, I hear something that is unmistakably human. A voice. Deep and distant, but not distant enough. Unable to make it to the boulder, I slip into a patch of trees, praying their thick foliage will be enough to mask my body. As I stand frozen I try to tune my ears toward the direction of the voice. It's a man. I hear him, wordless, but slowly becoming more clear with each step he takes. The blood rushing past my ears beats so loud I can barely make out which direction he's coming from, or if there's more than one voice.

Suddenly the beautiful forest turns ugly again. How crazy this place is to change so drastically so often. I find myself yearning for simpler time - when I was alone, underground, scared but safe. Now I feel anything but safe.

"I can't wait for you to meet all the people back at camp," the man says as he flutters into view. I peer through the dense layers of twigs and leaves, just enough to see him. He's older, tall, clean skin and fresh clothes. He must have come from the mansion. He walks with invigorating energy, a beaming smile revealing pure white teeth. As he talks, he interacts with someone next to him - only, there is nobody next to him. He must have lost his damn mind out here. Must have let the isolation get to him. "We'll come back for John," he tells his imaginary friend, an eagerness growing in his eyes. I perk up at the name. John. I hold my breath to hear better - I cannot miss a word. "Who knows, maybe he's already on his way back home."

 _We'll come back for John._ The words bounce around in my head. I feel dizzy. On high alert, but also so tired of all the information. All the possibilities. I wonder if this proves John's innocence or condemns him even further. I can't deal with all these new people. Their words gripping at my every thought. I can't believe I'm saying it, but I wish I was alone again. I wish I'd never met another human again in my life. All they bring is more questions. More danger.

The man makes his way past my hiding spot and I freeze. Thankfully, whoever he thinks he is talking to is standing on his other side, so he keeps his gaze away from me. Even if he were to stare right at me, the trees are secrete enough to keep me hidden. The man continues to speak, but is now too far out of range. Soon, he's gone, past the line of trees that fences my home from the beach. I wait another minute just to be safe before I dart out of the trees and back to the boulder, out of breath by the time I push it to the side and jump down the ladder.

"Woah," John says, leaned against the wall casually with his arms folded before him. "Did the drones finally catch you?" He teases. I pay him no mind. There is too much adrenaline flooding my brain for me to be concerned with his banter. I have far worse concerns right now.

"A man. A man was -" I run out of air, dropping my pack and folding my body inward. My palms press against my knees as I fight for gasps of breath. I cock my head, motioning up toward the ground above.

"Jaha," John sighs, letting the name linger in the air. I hear him laugh to himself, but not out of humor. No. Something more sinister. I manage to lift my eyes to look at him. His face twists into a smirk as he peers upward at the outside world. Annoyance takes hold of his expression as he rolls his eyes, shaking his head.

"He was -" I breathe. "He was alone. But he was talking to someone."

"Not someone," John says. "Something."


	14. Anchor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mira and Murphy begin to share their accounts of their time on the island. Mira sees a side of Murphy that surprises her.

"You sure you didn't see anyone with him?" John asks me.

"I'm positive," I say, and his face drops. "What?"

"She must be in his mind," John whispers, mostly to himself.

Suddenly, it hits me. "Just like Mack said…"

"Who?"

"Mack," I repeat. "The boy we met in the Dead Zone."

John folds his arms across his chest as he leans into me, his eyes peering at mine, as if they are begging for more information. A sense of urgency floods the room.

"And what did he say," John asks.

"He was alone. Said most of his group died on the way to the island, and the rest were taken by the women when they got here." As I explain, the memories of his face burns my vision. I give all my energy into remembering the scene as perfect as possible, but I was so young and so exhausted from months of hard travel. The sunlight was blinding and my innocent mind could not make sense of the cautionary tales he spoke to my aunt. "He begged my aunt and I to walk back home with him, telling us the City of Light is not what we were hoping for."

John watches intently as I speak. The influx of memories jumbles my words, but I push through the fog.

"He told us it wasn't real - at least not to the normal person. He said the woman offered them a chip - a technology from the past that I still don't understand." I shake my head, eyeing the floor. "And that he watched his friends become… rigid… and odd… as if the woman had cast some sort of spell on them. They weren't remembering things..."

"Why didn't Mack take the chip?" John asks.

I shake my head as I search for the answers. I scan every word I remember Mack saying. "He said he saw things, like visions, before he found the mansion. He knew things about her that made him see past her spell."

"The bunker," John says, his voice low and full of air. "He must have been in the bunker. That's where I learned everything. Those 'visions' were videos…" He shakes his head in frustration and talks under his breath. "If you even know what that means."

I begin to feel dizzy as the edges of my vision tingle and fade. After years of complete solitude, lost to my own racing speculations of what could be the truth of this island, I finally have some answers. Only they aren't answers - they are precursors to more and more questions. And I can't even let myself trust the person who is telling me these things. I've spent the last few days convincing myself John is the enemy - that he is lying. But now his statements are aligning with every new discovery I make. I don't know what to believe.

My eyes slowly succumb to the darkness growing in my peripheral. Suddenly I can barely stand as my knees wobble beneath the weight of my racing thoughts. John must take notice, because before my body can hit the floor, he rushes over and grabs my arms. I fall into his chest as my eyes force themselves shut.

When I wake, I am sunk deep into the bed. A damp cloth rests across my forehead. Slowly I come to and scan the room for John. He sits cross legged on the floor in the corner opposite of me, cycling through the contents of the large woven-basket which houses all the unused bowls I've crafted since I've been here. I purposefully left it in reach of him, knowing he can't use anything to escape. My knives and other questionable items, however, are scattered toward the exit safe from his grasp.

"How long have I been out?" I ask. My voice startles him as he turns his head to look at me, his mouth parted open slightly. He sets a woven cup down and stands.

"Eight hours," John shrugs, his expression unsure. He grabs my canteen that sits on the table next to his plastic bottle. "I wanted to drink it," he admits, handing me my canteen I filled earlier. "But you're gonna need this."

I take it and sip down as much water as I can. When I feel like stopping, the pounding headache at the base of my neck tells me to drink more.

"Why are you being nice to me?" I ask him. John scoffs and sits at the edge of the bed. I instinctively push away, scooting back slightly until I'm in a sitting position.

"Well, I can't get food or water if you're dead," he begins, a playful smile present on his rather clean face. He must have used his alone time to freshen up. "That, and I don't think you deserve to die."

I cock my head in confusion. He is full of surprises.

"Why do you care of my well-being?" I am genuinely curious. "I put those chains on you," I continue, motioning toward the metal that grips his left ankle. He looks down at the long chain, dismissing it with a smirk before facing me.

"Because, you have a will to live."

I watch his face, waiting for more. He smiles, looking at me, and I don't recognize him at all. This smile is different from the rest. He's not boasting, he's not joking, he's not amused… he is admiring my home, admiring  _me_. John shifts his eyes across the small room. It's well lit tonight. He's placed quite a few candles around each surface.

"I mean, look at this place. It's incredible."

I laugh. He must be joking. "It's a hole in the ground, John."

He inhales deeply and I watch his chest rise and fall. He scans the rooms with his gaze before locking onto me.

"You were how old when you got here?"

"Eleven," I say.

His eyebrows rise in shock. He is breathless and silent for a moment, still beaming at the room - at the bowls scattered across the floor, at the few pieces of furniture I've scavenged or crafted from driftwood, at all the tiny trinkets and gadgets that I've claimed from the beach. All the things that make up my life and distract me from the turmoil of my past and present.

"I thought those tallies might mean days," He says, staring at the wall full of deep lines representing my time here. "I was hoping I was wrong, but I guess not." He's silent for a moment. I feel him stare. "An eleven year old girl does all this on her own…" John says with a tinge of bewilderment in his low voice. "She's a true survivor."

John's eyes are locked on me and I don't know where to look. I drop my gaze and fold my hands in my lap. Some long strands of hair fall against the sides of my face, guarding me from facing him. I don't know why I'm nervous, but the conversation makes me want to hide under the blankets. His silence pushes me to speak.

"It's not like I had a choice," I say quietly. My voice cracks and I swallow the lump in my throat before looking back up at John whose gaze is still unwavering. The corners of his mouth curl as he lets out a breathy exasperation.

"Of course you did. You could have let the weight of it all crush you. You could have given up, laid here, and died. But you're still here."

Again, I drop my head. I begin to question his motives, but shut off the doubt immediately. I can't keep letting the paranoia eat at me. If I want to get any more information out of him, I can't just dismiss him as an enemy.

Who knows - maybe he is genuine. Maybe he is kind.

I might never know for sure, given our circumstances, but  _maybe_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, all! Thank you for reading! I'm excited to dig deeper into their odd dynamic. Let me know what you think so far!
> 
> BTW the chapters are song titles that reflect on the chapter. This song is my favorite, by Novo Amor. Give it a listen!


	15. Here With Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After she catches herself getting lost in her pity for Murphy, Mira decides she must stay focused on finding out more about the island.

No more words are spoken tonight, and I'm thankful for it. As one could imagine, I hate hearing him talk about me. I've been stuck with me - and only me - for the past seven years. I want to hear about something else. Anything else. Like how things are back home. Or how John made it 86 days with only his arrogant self as company… what a nightmare. We just sit here on the bed as John keeps his eyes preoccupied on our surroundings - the candles that dance around us casting shadows upon our faces, the few pieces of artwork made from forest findings I've hung upon the walls, and sometimes - me. I feel his glance a few times and ignore it, though it is strong enough to ache like daggers under my skin. Soon, John falls asleep at the foot of the bed, so I sleep cramped up in the corner.

When I wake, I am screaming my mom's name. Sweat soaks the sheets and falls like raindrops down my hot skin. John stands crouched on the floor to my right - his hands hesitantly circling the air around me, wanting to grab me and shake me awake, but his skin never touches mine. I guess he learned his lesson from the last time he tried to wake me. When he sees my open eyes, he stops and rests his elbows on his bent knees, peering at me through the dark.

"Hey," he whispers in a tired yet concerned voice. "Mira, it was just a dream."

I crawl under the blankets until I'm sat propped against the corner where the dirt walls converge. All but one candle remains aglow, it's flame weak and still. There is no sunlight creeping through the boulder, so it must still be night. I pull the tattered sheet, comprised of countless abandoned shirts and tarps I've collected from the beach and stitched together, up to my neck and clutch the fraying corners in a tight fist. My nails dig through the sheet until my palms begin to hurt. The visions of the sword through my mother's abdomen burn my eyes. It's all I can see.

"Do you need anything?" John asks. He kneels inches from my face and asks again. But I can't respond, barely able to think between the lingering haunting of my nightmare and the bubbling nervousness that grows heavier with every motion John takes toward me. I want so badly to just fall apart and collapse into his chest. Not because he makes me feel safe, but because he's a  _human._  It's been ages since I've recoiled into the comfort of a person's touch, of warm arms surrounding me and calm voice telling me everything's okay. For a moment I can feel the warm embrace of my parent's, of my aunt. But that too quickly fades away, like every other memory I own.

I shake my head.

"I'm fine," I mutter, expecting him to back off and return to his spot at the end of the bed. But he doesn't. He stays knelt there, too close for comfort. Or not close enough… It's a gray area of uncertainty…

"You don't seem fine," he says, and I notice he doesn't laugh with his comment as he usually does. I wish he would laugh. It was much easier to keep him chained up when he was mean. Lately, the guilt on my shoulders has been growing. It gets heavier each time he does something kind. Tonight is not helping.

"Who's Rica?" He asks and what little calmness I've gained since waking up is swept away with a racing heart and lump in my throat. I look down.

"My mother."

John clenches his jaw and offers a slight nod. A long breath escapes him as he, too, looks down.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

The room is silent. As silent as our home on the day she was executed. The sheets move next to me as John sits down, extending his legs forward and leaning his back against the wall.

"I don't mean to make this about me, but I lost my mom too."

My brows draw together and I glance over at him. His face is free of expression as he speaks. Instead, a glint of regret forms in his eyes as they glimmer in the faint candlelight. It is accompanied by a sentimental smile. Gentle, but blank. He rests his head against the wall gazing forward and places his folded hands on his stomach.

"She, uh-" He fumbles with the words and pushes a stray hair out of his face. "She couldn't deal with the death of my dad, so…"

I don't know what to say. A foreign feeling washes over me. A strange mix of sorrow and consolation. For once, I don't question John's motives. I don't question his honesty. Because I can feel the hurt that holds him. It lives in his eyes, in his dry jokes, and in the quiet smile of remembrance that he wears now.

"John-"

"It's okay," he says, shaking his head. His brows pinch together as he looks at his hands caressing over the sheets mindlessly. "I just wanted you to know in case you ever need someone to talk to who actually understands."

I want to ask him what happened. I want to know every detail, because it will distract me from my own shitty reality. But I can't bring myself to inquire more. The tiny gleam of anguish in his eyes remains as he stares directly ahead. I turn my head forward to do the same. And we let the silence consume us as he is swept away into sleep again.

I stay wide awake, plagued by insomnia from my relentless thoughts. Today has been too much. Everything happened at once - the man, Jaha. Mine and John's little revelations about the City of Light. And now John behaving kind and concerned… All of it has put my mind into overdrive. Especially the last one.

I want so badly for this turmoil inside me to end. I should have never tossed that rope at him. I should have never let him see my face. I should have never carried him down here. But I could not possibly have known this back then.

In some odd twist of thinking, my pity for him bubbles into anger. How dare he make this any harder than it already is? I want to rip away every layer of John that is even the slightest bit caring. I don't need him to help me through my emotions and my nightmares and my haunting memories.

I only need him to help me figure out what the hell is happening on this damned island.


	16. What You Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mira begins to enforce her new attitude toward Murphy. However, when she begins questioning him to gain knowledge about the island, the origin of his people causes new issues.

I wake before he does, and at first, my heart stops upon seeing him. Of all the thousands of mornings I’ve woken up here, never has there been a person next to me. His presence here makes me uneasy - not wanting to wake him, but needing to begin my day. It’s been a while without food. Not to mention the stress of yesterday. 

Pausing my thoughts, I carefully retreat from the bed, climbing over John with a light foot. My stomach growls and turns, begging for food. The only remaining food in the kitchen is some dried berries I’ve had for ages in case of an emergency. I debate downing them quickly, but decide against it. I’ve been much  _ much _ hungrier before. I can wait the few minutes it takes to go up to the forest. 

 

I keep what little clothes I own in a woven box stationed near the exit. Removing the lid, I peer inside and quietly grab a pair of damaged denim pants. They were once colored red, but now resemble dull clay, and are littered with tiny rips all down the legs. I remember when I found them washed up on the beach, damp with sea water and sand, stuck beneath some driftwood. I wonder who they belonged to, which girl had the misfortune of ending up here. Or perhaps, most likely, she never made it across the ocean. I peer over at John whose face is buried underneath a mountain of tattered cloth blankets and quickly change into the pants, throwing the dirty ones in another box meant as a laundry bin, although I will probably wear them countless more times before attempting to clean the dirt, mud, and grass stains out. I keep my white shirt on and slip on my boots, almost prepared to go outside for a hunt. 

 

I decide slugs will be a decent meal to begin our day. I have to constantly rotate my food sources, not wanting to deplenish one too quickly, like my first year here. Young and naive, I would hunt only what I had the taste for - squirrel - until they were few are far between. Now, I make it a point to balance my gatherings, only taking what the season allows in abundance. In the summer, the island offers a wide variety of fruits like blackberries, blueberries, strawberries, and cherries. If I’m lucky, I’ll find a rare melon hiding seemingly alone in the brush. In the autumn, I enjoy the various greens that grow above, and try to harvest as much pumpkin and parsnips as possible before winter turns the island gray. Then, it’s meat and dried fruit until spring brings back the mushrooms and fruits and fragrant herbs.

 

But today, slugs.

 

I don’t particularly feel like killing them with my bare fingers this time, so I grab a walking stick leaned up against the corner of the room to quickly fashion a spear. I grip his knife in one hand and slide the sharp blade down the stick, letting the bark fall into curly shreds on the floor.

 

Soon enough, John’s voice alerts me of his waking. 

 

“No breakfast?” He jokes lightheartedly. 

 

“I’m busy,” I mutter, hoping he will leave. I stay sat on the floor facing the wall. As I continue scraping the blade against the tip of the stick, he responds. This time his voice is closer and accompanied by footsteps and the light clink of chains draping behind him.

 

“With what? Maybe I can help,” he says. 

 

“You can’t,” I snap, harsher than I intend. 

 

“Woah,” he says. “Sorry.” Sarcasm drips from his voice, but the apology still bothers me. I clench my jaw, gritting my teeth together tighter than is comfortable, and try not to snap at him. But the bubbling emotions from last night, a dizzying swirl of guilt and anger, force me to speak - well… yell.

 

“Stop being sorry!” My throat aches at the volume and fire of my voice. I drop the wood and knife into my lap and raise my hands my head, massaging the pounding pain in my temples. It’s silent for long enough that I’m sure he’s taken the hint and walked away.

I’m not that lucky.   
  
“You’re very confusing,” I hear him say as he stands behind me. I turn. His lips curl as he sneers at me, probably ecstatic to watch me unravel time after time, winning his little game he plays with me. As I stand and face him to put him in his place, he continues. “What is it this time. You see another person up there or something?”   
  
“No,” I mutter. “My problem is you.”

 

“Oh great,” he laughs. “What could I possibly have done this time?”

 

“Just you being here is fucking everything up,” I say.

 

“Ha!” He laughs. “I wonder whose fault is that?”

 

He’s partially right, but he’s failing to see I had to do what I did. The risk was too high for me to let him walk away. I ignore him and begin to crouch down to finish my spear, but he extends an arm in front of me.

 

“Look, I don’t know what the hell you want,” he says, arm still drawn like a tree branch blocking my path. “I actually thought I was being pretty nice to you, given the circumstances.”

 

“That’s exactly the problem.”

 

He raises a brow, dropping his arm and leaning his weight against the kitchen table, half-sitting half-standing. 

  
“Excuse me?”

 

“Just-” I begin, although I can’t keep from stuttering with all the thoughts running through my mind. I throw my hands up before me, palms facing him. “Just stop with the ‘caring’ thing. I already feel bad keeping you here.”

 

“You feel bad?” All sense of joking is gone from his voice.   
  
I freeze. Drop my eyes. 

 

Of course I feel bad. Ever since I began to trust his story, even just a little bit, the guilt has made a home inside me. Last night was a whole new level of guilt, with his understanding and approachability to my darkest moments and greatest fears. But hearing the question out of John’s mouth makes it an undeniable reality. And perhaps makes me appear weak in his eyes. 

 

And maybe I am, just a little, weak. 

 

That’s what guilt does to people.

 

For an instant, I remember the anger I felt toward John late last night. The anger converts all my guilt into vengeance. The anger takes some of the blame off my tired shoulders and drops it onto John - who had the nerve to walk into my life, and onto Alie - who had the nerve to  _ ruin _ my life. 

 

Just the passing thought of the woman is enough to shift my focus off of John and onto the real issue at hand.

 

My mind won’t settle until I get some answers.

 

“So, Jaha,” I begin. John immediately peers toward me, a glint of mischief in his eyes. His brows drop as he turns a corner of his mouth upward. Whoever this Jaha guy is, it’s clear that John is not very fond of him. “Why did he come to the island?”   
  


“City of Light. Same as you,” he tells me through a smirk, eyes fixed on mine. I wonder what is racing through his mind. He’s probably still happy to hear me say I feel bad for him.

 

“And you came here together,” I say, remembering the few details John has told me over the past week. 

 

He nods, and suddenly the smug grin is wiped away, leaving his face and eyes blank as he looks away. “It was us and a group of others,” he says before a moment of drawn out silence. I already know what’s coming next. The story is the same for most who make it to the island. “The rest didn’t make it. Well,” he chuckles. “One of them would have made it if it weren’t for Jaha throwing him overboard.”

 

I feel my brows pinch together. “Why would he do that?”

 

“Because he’s fucking crazy.” John looks at me. His eyes dart across my face before they fall again. His voice drops. “Ever since he lost his son, he’s been a mess. Like the only thing he cared about was finding the City of Light.”

 

I watch John laugh to himself. 

 

“How did he hear of the City of Light?”   
  
John shrugs. “When he dropped, he met some people who were looking for it too. I guess they sold him the dream.”

 

“Dropped what?” I ask.

 

John pauses and looks up at me before shaking his head with a laugh. “Never mind. You wouldn’t understand.”

 

“You keep saying that,” I tell him, beginning to feel frustrated. “You’re hiding something from me.”

 

“Oh, great,” John sighs. He speaks low and to himself, his eyes rolling to the side. “Here we go again.”

 

“You don’t need to ‘protect’ me from what you know. From the stories of your people,” I tell him, staring right back at him because in this moment, I am no longer intimidated by his arrogance. I need answers and I know he has some. “I’m not afraid of their power, trust me. I grew up Azgeda. I’ve seen things no child should ever have to witness.”

 

“I’m sure that’s true,” John begins. “But I’m not protecting you. I’m protecting myself.”

 

I raise a brow.

 

John looks me dead in the eye, his face motionless and grave. “Everytime I try to tell you anything, you accuse me of lying and lock me up. I’m not doing that again.” He kicks his ankle, making the chain rattle, reminding me of the situation I’ve placed him in. The weight of his voice has a hold on me. I open my mouth to respond, but he beats me to it.

 

“I wanted to tell you everything. I wish you could know everything, because then you’d know I’m innocent. But when it comes to my people, there are things you won’t understand, things that will make me sound crazy to you.”

 

I stand still and watch him speak, unable to respond.

 

“Unless you saw us fall from the sky, with your own two eyes, you won’t believe me.”


	17. Do I Wanna Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tension rises as the two begin to search for answers.

“I don’t know what that means, John,” I sigh and shake my head. The ache in my temples scatters across my forehead and I close my eyes, rubbing the tops of my brows in a circular motion to relieve the pain. I fear he’s lost his mind down here. Not surprising - it doesn’t take long. I stand not inches from the wall, letting my body teeter until my back is leaned against the cold, gritty dirt. 

 

“It means…,” John freezes, unable to continue as he shakes his head in defeat. He laughs to himself, again, and it’s pissing me off but I keep my cool. The last thing I need is to give him more of a reason to call me crazy. “Alright,” he whispers to himself before addressing me. “How do I say this in a way you’ll understand… We lived in the sky and came down on a ship.”

 

“Like Bekka Pramheda…”

 

“I’m sorry. Who?” John questions as he sits on the table, his legs dangling far apart while his palms rest folded at his lap. 

 

“The first Commander,” I say as it should be obvious. I’ve never had to explain this to anyone before. John’s confusion and curiosity makes me wonder how his ignorance on this subject could possibly exist. It seems rather bold for him to imply he is of the same origins as the first Commander, but I can’t outwardly question his honesty - at least not yet - or he will mope around for a few days about how I am ‘evil and cruel to him’.

“Becca…” John says to himself, letting the name linger. “It can’t be...” he mutters, his jaw tensing until deep lines form the muscles in his neck. 

 

“What?”

 

“Nothing.” John shakes his head, staring at the floor.

 

“John, tell me wha-”

 

“One thing at a time, Mira,” he says. The sharpness of his demanding voice stings my skin like the blade of a knife. He sits on the chair placed behind him and cups his hands together, resting his elbows on his knees in one tight statue-like posture. The lack of sunlight and poor nutrition already has him pale, but the pigment in his face worsens quickly and he sits silently thinking.

 

“So,” I say, reeling him back to reality. “Your people fell from the sky. Then what?”

 

“Then…” he shrugs, dropping his hands to his sides. “We set up camp, ran into some Grounders, and the rest is history.” 

 

The conversation seems to exhaust him as he sits growing disinterested and increasingly irritable. But, to reclaim what little power I hold over my fate, I continue seeking the answers I’ve been craving for so long. 

 

“Well no shit. Tell me the history,” I say. “You told me you were banished. Why?”

 

This shakes him. He exhales, eyes dead forward as he falls back into the chair. The wooden legs tilt backward with his weight, but his feet stand firm on the ground to balance it out. He teeters for a moment, staring at the wall through a squinted gaze. He’s usually rather quick to respond - too quick, even - but my question has him choosing his words carefully.

 

“Truthfully, I’d like to keep that to myself for just a little longer,” he says, rolling his eyes until they meet mine. His lips are taut, pulling into the ever so soft beginning of a grin. The sheen across his eyes as they drop without resistance tell me he’s not fully present - he’s reliving a memory. 

 

“Why is that?” I ask, and his eyes retreat to their normal power as he looks at me. 

 

“I don’t know - “ he struggles, shaking his head. John hesitates for a moment before centering on one thought, speaking firmly as his posture stiffens. “You already have a negative perception of me, and I really don’t want to make that worse.”

 

An inexplicable flutter wells up in the pit of my stomach at his conviction. I take a moment to swallow, my throat dry and scratchy from dehydration. This week of having John here has turned into one long, tiresome, and futile interrogation. Everything he says leads to more unknowns. And the thought of him caring how I view him makes me nervous - a light, bubbly nervousness that stops my heart for just a moment. 

 

It’s a feeling I’ve only begun to experience, and not one I’d care to address.

 

“What makes you think I don’t like you?”

 

“Oh, I don’t know.” John rolls his eyes and kicks up his leg before sending it down with force, causing the loud chain to hit the floor, a swirl of dust flying around it. The sound of the metal pierces my ears, making me wince with shock and annoyance. “Lucky guess.”

 

I try to match his glare at me, but I have to look away. I know he’s joking, but there is still some truth in his voice, and it aggravates me that he won’t just let this go. 

 

“Whatever you did back home isn’t going to change how I think of you. Actually, I barely know anything about you.”

 

“Good. Let’s keep it that way,” he says, standing up and walking toward me. He grabs the spear that I threw on the ground and tosses it at me. I barely catch it. “There’s not much to know. Now go get us some food. I’m starving. Literally.”

 

I throw the spear horizontally back toward him. It clatters in echoes as it lands near our feet. I stare at him and he looks up with intrigue.

 

“Tell me what you did,” I repeat.

 

A short breath escapes his smirk. He stands before me, examining my expression. I wait for him comeback with another witty comment, but he gives up the truth easier than I expect.

 

“I killed some people,” he says. His voice is quiet and his posture falls. He looks at me as he admits it, his eyes full and motionless, before they drop to the floor where he kicks the spear thoughtlessly. The stick slowly rolls across the floor, disturbing small pebbles and creating the only noise around us. 

 

I need a moment to accept this. Not because I’m shocked or disgusted or afraid of John, but because I am confused by the gleam of remorse in his face, the deep reflection of guilt in his chocolate eyes. I have never witnessed someone regret the act of killing - it is ingrained in us from a young age, even encouraged. Only the ruthless become heroic warriors, and death is welcomed. I always had a hard time accepting that, but I thought I was the only one.

 

“Who hasn’t?” I question, and he raises his eyes from the floor. 

 

He scoffs.

 

“Right, I forgot who I was talking to,” he smiles to himself, relaxing from the previous weight of the conversation. “My people aren’t too fond of killing each other.”

 

“So why did you?”

 

I watch his eyes flutter as his mouth hangs in an annoyed grin. He shakes his head. 

 

“Anyway, my people...” He begins, changing the subject.

 

“John,” I demand.

 

“Mira!” he snaps back. The irritation in his voice is sharp and hangs in the air for a long pause of silence, of his eyes beading onto mine. “Let’s cut the personal shit. And get back to the important stuff. That’s what you wanted, right?”

 

“Yeah, but-”

 

“But what? We’ve been sitting here wasting time talking about shit that doesn’t matter. You said it yourself - ‘stop caring’. We don’t need to be friends to figure out what the hell is going on outside. I already tried that and you made it clear you don’t want to be friends. I don’t know what you want.”

 

“I want the same thing you want - to get out of here.”

  
  
“Do you?” He asks, cocking his head with a raised brow at me. The short distance between us becomes frozen and tense. “Because you either A) don’t let me talk, B) force me to talk when I don’t want to, or C) don’t believe a single word I say.”

 

John’s eyes examine my every move - the slight wince at his spiteful words, the small tremble of my lips, and the slow drop of my gaze. Again, I think it best to say nothing. Communicating with John has become a very difficult game. I only let the wave of rage, desperation, and exhaustion wash over me and listen to him continue to speak.

 

“And it’s a shame, because I’m pretty sure I’m your ticket off of this hell of an island.”


	18. Ghost On The Shore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mira's unrelenting craving for freedom allows her to push past her qualms with Murphy.

_ “Anti, where are we going? Shouldn’t we follow that boy home? I think he needs our help,” I say barely beyond a whisper. I am running out of life and must put all my energy into walking up the remainder of this hill. I hope the wind will carry my voice enough for her to hear me.  _

 

_ “Shh, Mira. Do not hold on to any word that boy says. He’s either misguided or a liar. An unbeliever trying to bring us down with him.” _

 

_ She squints at the sun as we push forward. The city cannot be too far now. I ignore the bloody blisters that form on my bare feet as I plunge them into the hot desert sand over and over and over… I crane my neck behind us and count the few steps I’ve managed to take. Every second feels longer and longer. Before I can turn my focus back up the hill, I spot the small shadow of Mack walking away from us in the distance. I hope he will make it home. _

 

_ “How can we be so sure?” _ __  
_  
_ __ “Because, Mira. Our faith is stronger than fear. One boy cannot dismiss the hundreds of villagers who wish to find the City of Light.”

 

_ As she speaks, the skepticism that the boy awoke in me quickly fades, her voice soothing and gentle.  _

 

_ “Do not fear Mack. Instead, pity him as he will never receive the salvation we are about to discover.” _

 

_ As we crest the top of the hill, a mirage forms below us, twinkling under the hot sun. It is beautiful, but I am no longer fooled by the deception of the desert. Where you see water, there rarely is any. After countless days in these sandy expanses, I now ignore the false promise of any mirage. _

 

_ “You see? The City of Light is welcoming us - gifting us with this abundance of water,” Anti says, a bright smile widening on her face, her dry lips cracking under its force. _

 

_ “Water?” I question, unable to grasp the concept of what lies before us - an unimaginably massive sea, waves crashing onto the shallow beach at the bottom of the hill. _

 

_ “Yes, Mira. Water. This is not another trick of the eye. This is the City of Light guiding us in.” _

 

_ Suddenly I forget every word spoken by Mack. It is as though he does not exist. The sheer excitement of relief swells up in my tiny body as I barrel down the hill, sand kicking up beneath me, stinging my eyes but I pay no mind. Before I can give it any thought, I am running with a great energy I was not aware I had - the hope and rejoice that emits from my aunt and I is more than enough to push us further. Without speaking, we understand just how close we must be. After months of this relentless journey - waterless days, weeks of starvation, countless storms of all weathers - we are finally crossing the sea that everyone said would lead us into the City... _

 

_ “Just beyond this sea, we will find it. I know it.” _

 

_ Just one more obstacle.  _

 

_ Finally. Safety. I can taste it. _

 

 

 

  
  


“You have a lot of confidence in yourself,” I tell John. “I’m pretty sure that if there were a way for me to escape, I’d have done it by now. I’ve only been trapped here for 7 years,” I say with sarcasm, though my face is stony with all seriousness. “I’ve tried everything.”

 

“Yeah, everything except just walking to the beach and taking one of the rafts.”

 

I roll my eyes and join him at the table. I heave in one long breath, preparing for another exhausting conversation. I wonder why I even bother anymore. It is apparent we cannot get along. Perhaps the permanence of his imprisonment here is what keeps us trying to speak - trying to connect. Because if we don’t, we are nothing but two ghosts trapped down here, tortured by silence which is far worse than any noise.

 

“Every single one of those rafts are damaged beyond my abilities to repair. And I see far too many bodies washed up to trust I will ever make it through that treacherous sea again.”

 

The memory takes me back to a god-awful year of painstakingly pointless work. When I initially arrived on the island, there were a good dozen broken rafts and shells of what were once functioning boats. I hadn’t considered using the rafts to get back to the mainland until a few years had passed and I realized nobody was coming to save me. At that point, I made visiting the beach a daily activity, traveling only when the drones were inactive and far enough away for me to strategically navigate through the forest. I found that I could usually get a few hours of raft-repair work done and get back to my dwelling without seeing any drones the entire time. Using this to my advantage, I poured myself into repairing one of the wooden rafts just enough to float. It took me weeks of tight-weaving, knot-tying, and cursing, but I was so ecstatic to finally have a means to get off the island.

 

I didn’t get 10 meters before water flooded the bottom and the thing crumbled beneath me, plunging me into the cold water. 

 

I did this with three more boats before giving it up completely. Now when I visit the beach to gather leaves for weaving, I notice more and more rafts washed up. Only, there are no people on them or footprints in the sand; I shudder thinking of how many bodies must be lost in that sea.

 

“Besides, the beach is too exposed. The drones don’t fly there, but sometimes they watch from the treeline and who knows how far they can shoot.”   
  


“Mira, I’m telling you, the drones aren’t an issue.” John speaks with an air of overwhelming cockiness, his eyes shifting from one side of my face to the other. No wonder his people cast him away.

 

“Maybe not for you,” I snap. “But try telling that to my aunt.”

 

John drops his gaze, pulling his lips into a firm line while he squeezes his thumbs in tight fists on the table top - not out of anger, but of visible regret and frustration. He knows how sensitive this topic has become and he probably wishes he would choose his words more carefully, and I wish that he would, too.

 

“Oh wait. You can’t. She’s dead.”

 

“Look, I’m sorry about your aunt, okay?” John’s voice is tired yet genuine. He uses his hands to speak, releasing the fists and flattening his palms onto the wooden table. “But me and Jaha walked through fine. Are you seriously going to let a mere  _ possibility _ decide how long you stay stuck down here?”

 

“Tell me, John. What would you have done in my situation?”

 

He’s silent.

 

“What would you do if your people murdered your parents and you fled with the last family member you had hundreds of miles through the desert only to have her be shot down right after you thought everything was finally going to be okay?” I expect my voice to come out weak and cracked, but I am surprisingly calm. Bored of our same tiring conversations. It’s like there is a wall between us and we can’t get through to each other. Sometimes, the wall crumbles down only for a moment, but then, brick by brick it raises back up, stronger than before.

 

“You’re right,” he admits, tossing his palms up. “I would probably do exactly what you’ve done,” he motions around the room, cocking his chin at nothing in particular but the collective accomplishments of my scavenging, building, and surviving. “But then, when someone who could help me came along, I would accept their help,” he continues, honing in on my eyes, his gaze and sharp voice unwavering. “I would listen to everything they told me because they’d know things I couldn’t possibly know after being alone for seven years…”

 

And after a week of stubborn fighting it is only now, by the grip of his eyes, that it clicks for me. That I know I must hear and accept his full story. It is no secret that I’ve treated John poorly, perhaps undeservingly so. But I am ready to fully drop the last bit of doubt I’ve held over him. 

 

It is clear I have no other choice. 

 

Either hear him out. Or live a long, tiring life and die down here with him, never knowing of what good could possibly be waiting for me in the outside world. 

 

He’s been right about other things. Maybe he’s right about being the one to help me get home.

 

Wherever that is.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Thank you for reading!!
> 
> Like I've said before, I have a pretty clear direction for this story, but I would still love to hear any of your ideas! Let me know what you think or if you've got any ideas for what you'd like to see in future chapters!
> 
> Thanks again :)


	19. Carry You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mira puts her trust in John.

I leave John at home for a moment to gather some slugs for breakfast. I trudge carefully through the woods, using the newly fashioned spearing stick like a cane. My backpack holds our empty canteens, so I head toward the freshwater stream up ahead. Because of the moisture, the rocks near the water house notably more slugs than the ones near my home. It has been such a long morning - longer than it had to be. Pushing him away, reeling him back in, demanding, misunderstanding… I don’t think I can continue this way.  

 

But as I walk, I am welcomed by an odd sense of tranquility. Like a heavy boulder has been lifted from my chest. My body feels light. Each step is bouncy and freeing. Perhaps it’s because I’ve finally let go of my struggle with John. It took many long, uncomfortable days, but I’m finally giving him the chance he’s been begging for ever since I took him. It feels nice to let go of the fear and paranoia that once orbited the boy and each word he spoke to me. Even the forest appears less daunting than it has always been. I think it’s because John is promising that we can figure this out - together. That we don’t have to suffer and succumb to the evil forces plaguing this island. 

 

It feels nice to trust again. Or to attempt it. I haven’t been able to trust anyone since my mother was executed. Maybe I trusted my aunt, but once I saw how that all ended, it reinforced my belief that nobody deserves my trust. 

 

But after what I’ve put him through, it’s the least I can offer John. 

 

I have a plan for this meal. We will sit and he will speak. Anything he’s ever wanted to tell me. I’ll be all ears.

 

At the stream, I choose a rock to begin with. It’s large and flat like a seat and is damp from the spray of the fast current. I grunt as I lift the rock and turn it over, revealing a family of slugs squirming in the dirt. I pluck them each with the spear like a skewer. I gather a dozen before moving to the next rock of similar size and find ten more. This is plenty for two people. I quickly bottle some spring water and move along. I haven’t heard any drones yet, which is usually a sign that they will come by soon.

 

When I return home, we don’t speak. John is still standing against the table as I left him. His palms rest on the wooden top while his fingers clutch underneath. He does this sometimes when he’s bored - just stays put, looking at the wall, eyeing each tally mark engrained deep into the dirt. I used to think, when I saw him in this state, that he was planning his escape silently in his mind. Now, however, I believe he’s simply jaded. Hopeless. Wondering if he’ll ever see the sun again.

 

I crouch near the fire pit and adorn it with layers of the dried leaves and twigs I pull out of my bag in large fistfuls. The dead foliage crunches and disintegrates in my palms as I spread them out evenly over the black dirt. I grab the flint that lies in it’s allocated spot near the pit and effortlessly drop a spark onto the pile. I’ve done this too many time to count. After a moment passes, the spark catches and spreads like a lightning bolt in the sky. I enjoy watching the fire grow. Each crack of the twigs and sizzling of the leaves reminds me of home - my true home - sitting near the warmth of the flames next to my mother and father. I catch myself smiling and quickly swipe it away.

 

I return my mind to the task and place a clay pot over the dancing fire. I pour one of the canteens into the pot, letting it boil before dropping in a handful of tea leaves. I bring the tea to the table and set the other canteen next to it. Lastly, I remove the dead slugs from my spear and separate them evenly into two groups. 

 

“What’s all this?” John turns to ask. He walks alongside the table and eyes the questionable feast I have laid out for us. Nothing but slugs, arranged delicately on two separate skewers placed at each seat. 

 

“This is your chance to tell me everything.”

 

“Oh, I’ve had plenty of those,” he jokes with raised brows. 

 

“This one is real. This time I will listen,” I say and he hesitates before sitting at the chair opposite of me. 

  
“Listening and believing are two different things,” he sighs. An air of frustration washes over him in place of the humor he just presented. I know he’s tired of our back and forths that lead to nothing - a vicious cycle of pleading that always ends because I haven’t learned to trust. I would be frustrated, too.

 

“John,” I say with a stern hold on his eyes. “I can only try my best. Admit it, some of the things you say are so outlandish that it’s hard to believe you.”   
  
“I would think so too if I were down here for the past 7 years, but Mira, things are changing up there.”

 

I brush off his statement and pour us each a small cup of tea. While I don’t address what he says verbally, it slowly eats away at me inside. I’ve spent countless hours pondering the possibilities of current events back home. I wonder what kinds of wars Azgeda has created since I’ve been gone. I wonder how many of the people I was once surrounded by are now dead. Which are in power? Which notice I’m gone? 

 

“Nothing is as it was. And the only way you could ever know that is if you get out of here. Which is what I’m trying to do,” he says.

 

My body tenses at the idea. Because I know the hardship it will cost - the painstaking effort on my end to allow him to take some amount of control over my fate. Is it even possible? Are we wasting our time? At this point, I almost wonder if it’s best to simply cut his chains and let him go. I’d stay here and continue my life this way. It would be easier because it’s what I know. It’s comfortable here. Yes, the constant anxiety and paranoia and silence is almost preferable to this dream of escaping the island, because it doesn’t entail putting my faith in someone else, especially John.

 

“So, where do I begin…” he ponders, twirling the skewer of slugs, eyeing them in the fire glow and what little sunlight peaks through the rock above.

 

“Wherever you’d like,” I say before taking a bite. 

 

John pauses, holding the skewer still, and looks at me. His lips are parted as his eyes slowly drop down my face. His brows are suspended in an expression of hesitation, of close examination of me.

 

“What?” I question, feeling my brows raise and pinch together. 

 

“Nothing,” he lets out a breathy laugh while he shakes his head and looks away. “It’s just weird - being able to talk to you like this. No interrogations, no threats…” He pauses to look up. A genuine smile forms across his face. “It’s nice.”


End file.
